


Remedy for Cain

by write_light



Series: Take the Devil (From My Mind) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Preseries, Slash, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2010, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_light/pseuds/write_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>1870s. The American Midwest.</i><br/>THEN: Sam, an inexperienced hunter, and Dean, a successful brothel owner, were raised apart, haunted by the fiery deaths of their parents.  Reunited, their relationship as lovers and hunting partners was tested by the entity that shattered their family.  Although they narrowly defeated the fire demon when it attacked, the shocking truth of their connection was revealed, and their lives are in danger.<br/>NOW: Bound to each other, Sam and Dean are on a dark, demon-haunted road crisscrossing the Midwest from Kansas City to Memphis. While rebuilding their partnership as hunters and brothers, they realize their only common ground is a history of shared tragedy. Their friendship is further strained by apparitions of John and Mary, lost in Hell.  Mysterious figures take a curious interest in them, revealing a world beyond that of angels and demons, the true source of the curse that marks Sam and Dean.  A deal with a demon is their last desperate gamble to save their family – and the road lies through Hell, a place that is not all it seems – <i>but a greater promise was made long ago by these brothers; there are other plans for their souls. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue / Then

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the direct sequel to [Santa Fe & Iron](http://archiveofourown.org/works/438300). Reading that story first is not required, but will definitely enrich this story.

**PROLOGUE**

  
gainst the flashes of lightning he could still make out the large form that sat astride him, the hands closing around his neck. Wind-driven rain pelted them from above, from the side, even from below it seemed, blurring and reddening everything as they struggled.  The one on his back wondered if the red was from his own forehead or his brother's wounds or just the blood that throbbed behind his eyes.  
  
In a sudden twist of leg and torso, he flipped his brother over and regained the top, but his next blow was stopped mid-swing by his brother's much stronger hands.  He let his arms go slack. His brother below him, eager for an end to this, loosened his grip slightly and dropped one hand against his brother's chest, feeling the wild heartbeat.  The weapon remained poised, a half-jawed grin in the sudden slant of evening sunlight that cut through the storm.   Blood, or the red earth they tumbled in, ran from the point end of the bone.  
  
"We're brothers. Why are we fighting?" asked the younger one, frightened by something in his brother's eyes – all was clouded in red and his head pounded.  
  
"When have we not fought?" asked the older one, rain washing the blood in a jagged line around his jaw.  "I am your brother; none is closer!  If you give no credence to my wishes, then you have no need for me. We should not be here together."  His rage was close now, surfacing like the blood from his wounds.  "You seek approval from all, yet ignore your own flesh and blood.  You are not your own man, but a servant," he accused.  
  
"And you strive to do right when even the wisest man cannot tell you what that is!" said the younger one in frustration.  "You rejected the counsel of your own brother and are outcast in all the world" – and with that he let both hands fall to his chest and fold together, unable to say more. He ached at the path they had taken.  
  
"Stay with me then, if no one else will, and we will find what fears guide our hands," the older one pleaded.  
  
"Free me and I will follow you," promised the younger one. "You struck me once and I held you off, but I know you mean to murder me.  I am weary of this pain, knowing that I would soon do the same to you.  I cannot live longer with those thoughts on my soul," he said, and closed his eyes.  
  
A weapon swung against a brother's skull, bone against bone; so easy it was! Now it was done. He breathed deep ragged breaths, sucking in rain and blood and the soul of his brother if he could. The storm raged over the illness that had entered the world, over his cries as he fell across his silent brother to shield him from the hail and lightning and the sight of God.  His hands sank into the red clay beneath them, trapping him with his deed, and he lost sight of the world.  
  
In time, a madness spoke to him on the wind as it howled through his head – his absent brother's voice, deep and familiar – and another, far more terrible and vast – then his own voice, too, as if from another mouth.  A deal was made; impossible task and eternal hope were set against each other.  The unspeakable cost fell upon the older and the younger brother equally as they cowered once again in each other's arms, the younger one's hand over his brother's heart in the intimacy of shame and fear.  He heard his brother agree with a single word.  He heard himself consent as well, and it revealed itself to them then, as the bond was reset – life, seeking balance and remedy, the way of the world, all that is.  
  
When he was restored and again alone, the man felt hope had gone with the light of day.  He severed himself from his brother and fled in the dark, his red-stained hands the only outward mark of his act.  Death came to him in time, as it does to all, in the end.    
  
 _But they did not end, these brothers._

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
**Remedy for Cain ||** **THEN**  
  
 _June 28 – July 8, 1872   Salina, Kansas to Lawrence, Kansas_  
  
Sam and Dean left Salina, Kansas on June 28, 1872.  Their goal - Lawrence, their birthplace.  
  
Dean had a fresh knife wound in his side, Sam had just defeated a demigod, and they were, for the first time in 22 years, brothers.  
  
  
 _morning, Salina station, stay focused_  
"Dean, train's here.  I'll hold you up."  
 _stitches hurt, Molly! 'bye, Molly_  
  
 _train's jostling, notgoodnotgood_  
"Oh god, Dean, watch it!"  
 _sick, sorry Sam, dead tired_  
  
 _lawmen, Topeka?_  
"Yes, Topeka. Keep your voice down."  
 _hiding, hate this, my brothel was nicer than this hotel_  
   
 _fever, cool hands, touch me Sam it's okay_  
"Dean, this'll take the fever down, cut the pain."  
 _codeine, bandages, hallucinating- I hope_  
  
 _Sam my brother, never had a brother 'til now_  
"No, Dean, neither did I.  Can't believe how much you weigh."  
 _carriage, ouch, rough road_  
  
 _river, Lawrence, farmhouse, Sam- you carryin' me?_  
"Shhh…."    
 _bed, soft, night_

 

 

_  
_


	2. Some Demons Never Lie

**** _July 12, 1872   Lawrence, Kansas_   
  


_Hello Posterity. (Hold on, Sam's talking at me, need to listen.) He doesn't expect me to use the big words correctly. Still in Lawrence.  What is so wrong with my life that I leave this craphole and then end up back here over and over again?  Still laid up with the knife wound and Sam won't let me go outside.  Says it'll be another week, but I'm healing fast.  Sam asked me to write down what happened, but what can I say?  "Dean Campbell, brothel owner, meets Sam Winchester, monster hunter."  And now we're brothers.  According to a fire-demon-thing.  Even Sam didn't know what it was, but he had some chant that sent it packing and it took my brothel with it, in flames. The bastard.  That was all I had.  
_

  
"Dean, put your notebook down and rest.  You've been writing in it all morning. Either you slow down or you use the pencils I gave you – we don't have any more pens."    
  
"Pen's fine, Sam.  Ink lasts."  He chewed on the end of it, oblivious to his habit, then added three words and snapped the notebook shut. _Wet ink be damned._  
  
***  
  
When Sam sat down to study the hunting journals left behind by Nikolas Gress, his mind wandered once again. _Love isn't even the word I need.  Why should this be so hard?_   
  
He and Dean had been hiding out in the abandoned home for nearly a week already, Sam coming and going at odd hours when the streets were empty, or nearly so. Dean was recovering upstairs – arguing, complaining, and generally making Sam's life hell.   
  
Sam's pencil tapped in the quiet of the parlor, a breeze rippling through the curtains from the large apple orchard behind the house.  He slipped silently back upstairs to retrieve the small black notebook from Dean's room without waking him.   
  
***  
  
What struck him most was what Dean left out of his entries.  There was a lot about the brothel, and a disproportionate amount about Sam himself, at least since May of that year when they'd first met; even Molly, Dean's right hand and their mutual friend, made a strong appearance.  But Dean wasn't in it.  No revelations, no soul-searching, no idle dreams.  There was an occasional entry that verged on emotion, on mentioning himself, but anyone reading the journal would have no idea of the man who wrote it.  The charming, self-confident huckster and true friend that Sam came to know in barely two months together was not this journal's author.   
  
_Put it back!_ – Dean's last entry – startled him as if Dean had been right behind him all along, catching him at it.  He snapped the book shut, just as Dean had done, and placed it by Dean's bed again; Dean didn't wake.  Sam looked at the marks on his brother's forearms, in long rows, the remnants of two separate battles with a malevolent force that didn't match any description of known demons. Sam had telegraphed five hunters in the past week, asking obliquely about demons and fire but no responses came.  
  
***  
  
 _July 19, 1872_  
  
At the house, Dean was eating.  Sam tried to report his find and still keep the book out of Dean's sticky fingers.  
  
"The town record clerk's getting suspicious of my frequent visits and odd requests – I need to start making notes of the lies I tell."  
  
"Just cut to the good part, Sam."  
  
"I came across a Josiah Bennett and family in the northern part of town, deceased and the property deeded to heirs who sold it.  'Mysterious circumstances' how they died," Sam added.  
  
Dean was uncomfortable at the mention of John's relatives who'd raised him after the fire.   
  
"They're dead?  And here I was about to say research is boring," Dean complained, "even if it might tell us more about our parents."  
  
"But Dean, it _does_ – look!"  
  
Sam held out a volume labeled only "C".  
"Did you lift this?"  
  
"I'll take it back."    
  
"Nice work, Sammy."  
  
Dean went to open the book, but Sam pulled it back.  He lifted the burnt cover gently, and Dean scanned the title page.  Sam could see his eyes glazing over.  
  
"Here,…" he opened at the bookmark and pointed.  
  
Dean caught sight of the name "CAMPBELL, R." and below that, "daught. 1; Mary".  He read and re-read the line, astonished.  Dean spoke the brief notes aloud as Sam transcribed them into his journal: _CAMPBELL, R., widowed, daught.: 1; Mary; Settled in Lawrence 1830, Deceased 1848 of fever.  
_  
"Is there more about this woman, Mary Campbell?" Dean asked.  
  
"If she owned land, which is unlikely," Sam replied.  
"Everything about her is unlikely, Sam."  
  
***  
  
 _July 22, 1872_  
  
The old lot where the Bennett house had stood was as barren as ever, ash-grey and silent in the late evening light.  Dean stood looking at it, trying to force a memory up from childhood, but could see only the night he'd almost died there, and the fiery hand that had scarred his back forever. Sighing loudly, he turned and ran right into an old man.  
  
"Oh my! So sorry," the old man apologized.  "It's my new shoes, quiet as the grave they are, and – are you-? Weren't you here just a while back?"  
  
"First time here.  Passing through," Dean said, nodding as he twisted awkwardly away from the man, holding his injured side.  
  
"If you have a question, you should ask, young man.  Knowledge never killed anyone."  
  
"Did you know the people who lived here?"  
  
"Not at all.  They were dead and gone before we moved in."  
  
"Who might know?"  Dean's voice had picked up a desperate edge.  
  
"Well everyone knows what happened.  Man set the place on fire, killed his wife."   
  
If Sam was his brother, Dean had to know beyond any doubt.  The truth was too painful to think about for long, and they'd done a good job of ignoring it while trapped in the same house week after week.  
  
"Killed the wife and kids, ran off on his horse, went to Missouri," the man continued, waving his arm at the eastern horizon.  
  
"Kids!" Dean blurted, grabbing the man's arm.  
  
"Let me go!  Yes, kids!" he said, brushing himself as if soiled. "Two boys, one just an infant."  
  
Dean waited, breathless, but the man stopped.  
"What do you know about them?"  
  
"That's all – two boys, the wife, and the madman who set them all ablaze.  That Bennett family was all crazy, I tell you."   
  
"Two boys, they were his sons?"  
  
"Are ya dim?"  
  
"One more thing," Dean said, holding the man from departing. "Why is there nothing here?"  He looked at the empty lot, and back at the man.    
  
"Devil's curse," he said solemnly.  Then he laughed suddenly, a bit worried that this strange young man appeared to take the joke at face value.  "You know I'm joking, young man.  Yes?  It's all tied up in land rights – no will, no heirs, no owners.  I'd buy it if it were free but someone has a claim on it and no one knows who that rightly should be."   
  
"Thank you," Dean said, distracted again by the burnt and barren plot in front of him and the brother sleeping across town.  _He has to be my brother._  
  
"You best get home now, with that limp of yours. The moon's almost gone and the roads will be dark."  
  
***  
  
 _July 23, 1872_  
  
As the sun reddened behind the trees, the room remained uncomfortably warm, and a dappled glow like firelight played through the window, across Sam's face.  His head lay across one arm, at an awkward angle to his body in the small straight-backed kitchen chair.  He was asleep but lost somewhere.  He awoke to a scream roaring in his ears and choked on his own saliva, coughing and looking around in terror for the flames he'd just felt.    "SAM?!" came Dean's worried voice from the upstairs landing.    
  
"Dean, are you all right?" he called, panicked and sweaty.  
  
"You're the one who screamed!  If you do that again, we'll have visitors."  
  
"I'm… It was me?  I thought it was you.  In the cellar at the club."   
"That's a hundred miles away, burned and buried," said Dean, making his way slowly down the stairs.    
  
Dean had his own nightmares to worry about and didn't need to be doubting Sam's sanity.  
  
"Sorry," Sam said, rubbing his face as Dean limped closer to him in the kitchen.  
  
"Ah, feeling guilty about reading my journal?"    
  
Sam's face gave him away before he could cover the reaction, but Dean only laughed.    
  
"Is it so fascinating?"  
  
Sam hesitated, and then ventured, "It's not complete.  You haven't said anything about what really happened."  
  
" _I_ know what happened, and anyone else who reads it has no business knowing that other stuff.  Present company excepted.  Enough people think I'm crazy as it is, Sam.  And the rest of it?  Us? That's off limits."  His face darkened, as if he'd lost something irretrievably.  
  
"We need a record of … all of this, Dean.  Dad never kept a journal and when he died, I lost nearly everything he knew."  
  
"Sounds like he kept a lot from you."  
  
That hurt, and Dean could see the pain in Sam's face.    
  
" _I'm_ not going to die," Dean said, stressing the "I", his voice softer.  
  
"We both nearly died in Salina, Dean."  
  
"You know, you're right.  And I was meaning to ask you what you're planning to do about it."  
  
Dean's tone was light, but Sam was unable to dispute the facts as Dean laid them out.  
  
"There have been five serious attempts on my life – four out of the five have happened in the month or so I've known you. There was the first time that fire-thing attacked me in the hall-"  
  
"It was a demon," Sam clarified.  
  
"A demon, yes, thanks Sam.  Then the dearly departed owner of this very house pointed a pistol at my head while I was in a graveyard _trying to keep a hellgate from opening._ "  
  
"In all fairness,–" Sam said, but Dean was rolling now.  
  
"Followed by Catherine Henry, whom I took to be a good, if annoying, Christian woman, until she shot _flames_ out of her mouth-"  
  
"- possessed by the same-" was all Sam got out that time.  
  
"And then a jealous saloon owner knifed me.  RIGHT HERE."  He was shouting now, gesturing at the bandages on his side.  "It seems that what's truly dangerous for me is having you around.  Something's wrong with that, Sam."  
  
"Three of those were attacks on my life too," Sam said, quietly.  
  
"Is this what we have to look forward to?"  It was softer again, almost plaintive.  Then the harder edge returned.  "Our lives are upside down, Sam."  
  
"Dean, write it down.  Everything, even us."  
  
Dean nodded, approving some internal agreement with himself.  "Just don't expect too much," he said. "Shouldn't you be out looking for food for us?"    
  
With the clumsy change of subject, Sam knew the discussion was over; Dean turned back toward the stairs.  
  
"I'll be back in no time," Sam said.  
  
"You be careful."  
  
***

_I was Dean Bennett, then I was Dean Campbell, and now I'm just Dean.  I come from Lawrence, Kansas, and when I was five, a fire-demon attacked us and killed my mother.  It tried to kill me too.  My father ran, and he took my baby brother with him, and I never knew where they went. And he never knew about me. Dad thought I was dead, that's what Sam believes.  My father's relatives raised me with all the resentment and hate they could scrape together.  I told them about what was in the fire, but they only wanted me gone, and when they got the chance, they left me behind in Kansas City, Missouri. I was five, or six, don't know.  
_

  
Dean put his journal down.  His stomach was rumbling and Sam hadn't returned.  It was time to pull the curtains and keep lights out of sight, but he wanted to write more.  _Eat, then write more._   He was awake at night, as always, after four years hosting a club that only boomed well after sundown when wives slept and men could prowl.     
  
Molly would be bringing him a whiskey and something to eat from the brothel's kitchen about now. _Where are you, Molly?_ She'd vanished with only a promise that she'd see him again, and he missed her steadying presence.  She had helped more than once when Sam preoccupied him.    
  
He hated the silence of the rural night; insects or not, it was too quiet – no piano, no laughter, no drunkards being hauled out by the guards. Nothing to keep out the voice of the fire demon, or the thoughts he had about his new brother. Conversations filled their hours, and the sketchy outlines in their journals, with details of two lives lived very much alone.    
  
The house was too quiet with just Dean in it, so he explored, talking to himself. He found where Sam had been sleeping and realized it was not "the other bedroom" – there was none, despite what Sam had said. Sam slept on a cot in a spare storage area hardly bigger than the pantry, while Dean had recovered in the Gresses' large and very comfortable bed.  The space smelled like Sam, and by the cot, with its single pillow, was Sam's old journal.    
  
Dean knelt and picked it up, putting the lamp down on the makeshift table where the journal had been; he flipped to the entries from early July, when he'd still been lost in the fever.  Sam's smell was stronger as Dean leaned on the pillow to read, a heavy scent he'd last inhaled over a month ago from Sam's sweaty body under his own.  It worked its way into his mind as he read.

  


_I'm Sam Winchester, born Samuel Bennett in Lawrence, Kansas, in 1850, two weeks before a massacre. ~~My~~ Our parents had a house not far from where we are now.  It's gone.  Nothing there now, not even weeds.  I don't remember my mother -- she died when I was two weeks old. As ridiculous as it sounds, I know it's true because the demon that killed her told me.  I never knew I had a brother.  Never.  Dad never said anything about him, not once.  He even changed our name to Winchester, his mother's maiden name._   

  
The journal had a few small sketches but far more vivid images came to Dean as he read on: the small cabin in the Tennessee hills, the black-haired Cherokee widow who'd taught him the prayer that saved their lives, and over and over again a young and lonely Samuel Winchester who missed his father.  
  
Dean still struggled to imagine the father Sam had brought back into his life.  I want to see you, Dad.  Talk to you.   Amid the warm, confusing emotions, an inhuman voice mocked him, telling him how his father was in Hell… _"He's been burning in Hell for nearly five years,"_ said the low voice of guttering flame, and demons always lied, Sam told him.  But what about the thing they'd met in Salina?  Even Sam didn’t think it was a mere demon.  
  
Dean shook himself back to reality when he heard the back door squeak as it was closed gently.  Sam was home.  He dropped the notebook back on the table and headed down the hall with his lamp.  
  
"Sam?" he said, quietly. No reply. Then again a little louder, "Sam?"  
  
"Dean?  I found something," Sam called out from downstairs.  
  
"Did you get food, I hope?"  
  
***  
  
 _August 9, 1872_  
  
"You keep saying that, Sam, but if that thing was being honest about us, why not believe what it said about Mom and Dad?"    
  
"Dean, we don't have solid proof, just a few documents and some gossip that seems to fit."  "You're my brother.  We'll make it work out right."    
  
Sam was silent for a while, looking at Dean, who stood at the back door, itching to get out of Lawrence, a town of death and fear and hatred and very little good. Sam considered brotherhood unconfirmed and Dean held it as proven.  Sam was in the big chair, reading Dean's journal, with his permission now.  It had grown even less personal and had large gaps.  
  
"Sam, there's a train on Sunday-"  
  
"We'll leave next Tuesday.  That train is nearly always empty.  I've watched it for three weeks now."  
  
"Leave for where?"  
  
"Where do you want to go?"  
  
"Far from here."  
  
"Kansas City? To that woman, Sal?  Can we stay there?"  
  
Dean flushed, digging his nail into the trim, and said nothing.  Sam returned to reading Dean's diary, his best way into Dean's mind now.    
  


_I saw a ghost when I was six.  
_

  
"Wait, what?  You never told me that. You've seen a ghost?"  
  
"Didn't I tell you, Sam?  Saw her for years."   
Dean couldn't take the stare of awe much longer - "What?" he burst out.  
  
Sam went back to reading.  
  


_I saw a ghost when I was six.  Black Katie, sister of a slave boy.  Died looking for her brother and never knew he was dead already.  Then I was sent to prison at fifteen by the woman who raised me, and when I got out three years later, she hired me out – to the worst criminal in town, to run cons.  I beat him at his own game and when he tried to double cross me, I ended up not dead, holding the deed to a place in Salina, Kansas.  An armpit of a town.  I turned it into the best whorehouse they'd ever seen, the Impala Club.  Then it burned down.  
_

  
"You left out a lot there, Dean. Molly told me when I heard the true story of how you came to run a brothel, I'd know you were my friend."  
  
"That is the truth.  It was the best whorehouse in Salina.  In Kansas even. I had the real documents, not the counterfeit ones, and I got lucky – the brothel owner was trying to double cross my boss, and ended up getting shot himself.  I was supposed to be the one who went down.  Nothing heroic at all."  
  
Dean's voice had a sincerity Sam had heard a few times before, usually when he said how he felt about Sam.  This was the truth, and Sam wouldn't mock it.  Dean mocked himself though – the part of him that believed in his worthlessness was affirmed by his own history of cheating death and yet never quite living.      
  
***  
  
Sam added a few paragraphs to his own journal, speaking them to Dean as he wrote.  The conversation helped fill the evening and the widening gap between them.  In nearly six weeks, apart from Sam dressing Dean's wound, which Dean now did himself, they hadn't touched.  It was too much to ask, to return to the easy physicality and affection of June, days by the river, nights hunting demons or fighting Dean's enemies side by side, so instead, Sam talked and Dean listened.  
  


I came to Salina, Kansas, by accident.  I was supposed to go to Lawrence, to help Nikolas Gress, but his wife….  Nikolas and Michaela were hunters, but she'd murdered her own children, then driven her husband into hunting as a cover.  She worshipped Satan, I think.   


  
"You think?" said Dean, resting in the large and comfortable armchair Nikolas himself had favored.  
  
Sam stopped narrating and wrote in silence as Dean dozed again.    
  
He looked at the story so far, and saw that he'd fill two or even three notebooks if he didn't cut it down.  He tried the opposite tack; to shorten it beyond recognition and get it told, get it out so it was real.  
  


_I came to Salina, Kansas, by accident, and met Dean there.  I had no idea he was my brother, but I liked him immediately.  We were investigating a murder in his brothel when something came looking for us in turn, something that knew us.  I can't find any lore on it – it was a demon, only more powerful than any I've heard of.  It has to be what killed our mother and father.  We fought it off once, and in the rush of the moment after that we … got closer.  Some sort of bond formed.  I can't believe what I did out of ignorance._

  
"What are you scribbling in there?" Dean muttered.  "Is it about us?" he asked sleepily.  
  
"A 'close, um…, bond'.  That okay?"  
  
Dean only murmured and settled deeper into the chair.  
  


_The fire demon returned soon after we settled the case here in Lawrence.  We had to fight it again in the brothel, together.  When it attacked us, I used what the widow taught me, our last defense.  I think it worked; the fire demon vanished and took down Dean's club as it went.  Is it dead?  I couldn't kill a demon with a simple prayer like that.  If it's not dead, it'll come back.  Why does it want us?  It knew us both.  Demons always lie, don't they?_

  
"Dean?"    
  
Dean snored.  Sam talked to him anyway, hoping it got through better when he was asleep.  
  
"Mom died 22 years ago, and dad nearly six years ago.  They can't be in Hell.  And we can't save them, Dean.  It would be suicide to even try."   
  
***  
  
 _August 10, 1872_  
  
Sam went into Lawrence early the next afternoon, and when Dean headed out shortly after for another unauthorized visit to town, he opened the door at exactly the wrong time.  
  
"Who the devil are you?  And what are you doing in Nikolas's house?" demanded the woman just inside the gate by the road.  Her accent was distinctly Eastern seaboard, layered over German.     
  
"Just caretaking," Dean said, seizing on the first idea that presented itself.  He smiled and let the charm flow.  
  
"We'll see about that.  I happen to know he left his home to me, and now that the investigation is nearly wrapped up, I'll be free to take possession within the week.  I'll be back here before tomorrow morning."   
Dean gulped, smiling innocently.  
  
She left after taking a good long look at Dean before he even thought to get out of sight.  Down the road a ways, he saw her stop her carriage to talk to a neighbor, and point at the house.  The neighbor seemed confused, then shook his head and laughed.  The woman glared at him, and back at the window where Dean watched, then headed on into Lawrence.  
  
"Shit."  
  
***  
Sam arrived home shortly, through the back orchards, a few fresh picked apples in his bag along with fresh bread and a bottle of whiskey.  When Dean ignored the food, Sam realized something had gone very wrong.  
  
"We leave now. I'll explain while you pack.  And let me have the whiskey."


	3. Desperados

_August 11, 1872   Lawrence, Kansas_  
  
Sam had one pack ready: clothes, food, notes and several rare books from the Gresses' collection; Dean had half-filled another pack with a traveling arsenal: holy water, rock salt, silver knives, small guns – and kept coming back into the room with more, including a few things Sam hadn't suggested but which looked to be very useful. In under two hours, they'd removed all sign of their own presence and returned the Gresses' weapons and books to hiding places only a hunter would find.   
  
"We'll have to ride out of town, get the train later," Sam shouted after Dean had vanished down the stairs to get one more gun from the storm cellar.  "And we have enough guns!  Don't make the horses suffer."  
  
 _Horseback?!_   Dean pressed his fingers to his eyes in the dark of the cellar.  He hadn't come to love horses any better for having ridden one, even if it had been his first and longest time alone with Sam. Dean's genius in evading the law and finding secret routes had saved them a few times already.  Quick thinking saved him this time too.   
  
"Let's take the road to the river, then along to the back of the station, stay clear of anyone in town," he yelled back.  
  
"How did you figure that out?" Sam asked.   
  
"I've been in town twice.  Had to get out," he said, clambering out of the cellar with a sawed-off shotgun in his belt.  "A man could go stir-crazy in a little place like this."  
  
"Dean! You-"  
  
"I was seen, Sam.  I talked to people.  Felt good.  Nothing to do with yesterday's little fiasco."   
  
They had perhaps an hour to get away from the house before the moon rose, and several hours to hide out before they could approach the train station – and that was if the train came on time.    
  
***  
  
Sam worked all morning in the grove of trees by the river, attempting to forge tickets that would take them as far as possible.  
"Write them for New York."  
  
"Dean, that would cost a fortune.  We don't exactly look the part."  
  
Dean sighed and looked from Sam's scruffy appearance to his own sad clothes, mostly what he could fit into from Nikolas' wardrobe, or what he'd stolen from a few clotheslines on his trip into town.  It was not what he'd grown accustomed to as the wealthy brothel owner of Salina – clean shirts with collar stays and cufflinks, topped with gold-brocade vests and tailored velvet pants.    
  
"I miss the velvet pants."  
  
"So do I," said Sam unconsciously, a painful confusion in his chest as the image of Dean in those pants overtook other thoughts.  He shook his head and refocused on the ticket.  
  
Dean watched Sam fight with the unkind and unwelcome truth that they had an attraction, a powerful one, and pushed his own guilt deeper down.  Sam didn't need any extra burdens, and Dean didn't know what to do with the feelings in any case.  Incest, perversion – the words were losing meaning in the face of a life with a new brother.  
  
Sam worked his confusion and tension into the intricate design at the top of the ticket, a near-perfect replica of the engraving stamped on each one by the Missouri Pacific Railroad.    
  
"We can get to St. Louis, maybe as far as Chicago, but I'll have to get a look at the tickets from the Northern Central before we go further.  There's a hunter named Kearney in St. Louis; he knows more about demons than anyone."  
  
"Is that smart, Sam, telling him we've got our own special demon on a first-name basis?"  
  
"We need information.  He's got it. He's got a reputation too, for killing demons.  Over fifty," Sam remarked as he worked out the final details with a pen.  
  
"So we lie to him.  The kind of plan I know best."  
  
***  
  
Sam climbed aboard the train, seeking two empty seats, then penciled in their names on small pieces of paper in the ticket holder, and went to find Dean, who had become separated when a woman collided with him and demanded his apology.  Dean had thought, just for a second, that it was Sal, but the eyes were too tight and merciless, even for her. He looked helplessly between her and the train until he saw Sam leaning out a door three cars down.    
  
"As nice as this has been, it's time to go," he said to the woman, leaving her gaping at his rudeness.  
  
Dean pushed his way through the August swelter and onto the packed train, where Sam loomed tall, his head above the shoulders of the other people in the corridor as he waved a long arm out over the crowd, grabbed Dean and pulled him into the compartment, slamming the door.   There were seats for six, two with bags under them already, one with a hat.    
  
"Couldn't we get an empty one?" Dean sighed.  
  
"They're getting out in Kansas City," Sam explained, but Dean had already loosened his collar and dropped the heavy pack, sweat staining his shirt from neck to waist.  
  
"Open the window, for the love of God, I'm sweating like a pig."  
  
***    
  
The compartment soon filled with a dour man and his partner, less than thrilled to find their comfort impinged by Sam's long legs and Dean's intense gaze.  The other seats belonged to a woman with a hard face and a penetrant eau de toilette, and a man in the severe dress of a Calvinist minister, sweating the last ounce of body weight from his bones.    
  
Lawrence faded into the distance, and the trip to Kansas City took no time at all.  The rhythm of the wheels along the tracks made Dean sink down in his seat, just as he was sinking inside. _Out of one pit into another,_ he thought. He wasn't ready to face Sal again, not after the way they'd parted, not after what she'd done, bringing him men when he was at his lowest, using him to further her own ambitions. It was a long dark line on his brow, he was sure, all the men Sal had given him over the years, to keep him close, keep him hers.  
  
Across from him, Sam simply watched Dean, something he did far too often.  Dean fit well into the emptiness that John's death had left in him. He looked for traces of his father's face in Dean's, and found few, apart from the eyes. There was a solidness to him that was a lot like John's, and a reaction to people he disdained that couldn't have been genetic, but there it was, on Dean's face, just like his father's for a moment.  And he noticed the strong legs, the ones he'd felt against his, around him….  He shifted, kicking Dean unintentionally.  The kick brought Dean out of his overheated daze.  
  
"You gentlemen getting off here too?" said the conductor, sticking his head through the door.  
  
Sam realized he hadn't written their final destination on the door cards, and looked at Dean for guidance.   
  
"We'll be going on to… St. Louis," Sam told the conductor in a steady, confident voice, his eyes on Dean the whole time.  
    
"Why isn't it marked here?" the conductor said to himself, checking the door cards again.  "Mr. Emerson?"  He looked again at Sam.  "May I see your ticket, please?"  
  
Sam handed it over with a smoothness that impressed Dean.  This brother of his knew how to pull off a con, he felt sure now.  A good man to have on his side.  
  
"These are from Salina?" the conductor asked.  
  
"Yes." Sam kept it light.  
  
"Fool train staff there.  They never get these things right."  
  
And Mr. Hawthorne?  Your ticket?"  
  
"Call me Nate," Dean said with the most disarming grin he could muster in the oppressive heat of the compartment.  
  
"St. Louis it is.  We've got a good hour in the city before we depart again, so you may want to get out.  Get some air."  He handed the tickets back and slammed the door shut, but not before they heard him taking a deep breath of fresh air.    
  
"Mr. Emerson, shall we take a brief walk?" Dean grinned at the names Sam had used.  
  
"In a minute, Nate," Sam replied darkly.  
  
As the train pulled in, Dean watched the city pass by.  It hadn't changed much in five years.  The horsecars were new, but the jail was still there, and the German bakery down the street. He felt a knot growing in his stomach.  He was on the edge of remembering something crucial when they passed the backside of Sal's brothel at 3rd and Wyandotte.  
  
"Wyandotte…" Sam read the street sign.  "Not the best part of town from the looks of it."  
  
Dean was frozen, his hand on the window as their train slowed and the car came to a halt with a squeal of the brakes and a short, sharp jerk.  He could see the brothel now, and if Sal were to come walking out the side door, she would probably see him gaping back at her.      
  
To Sam, the look on Dean's face resembled fear – not one of Dean's expressions, even when the demon attacked them in Salina.    
  
A door opened at the rear of the building, and a handful of girls spilled out to wave invitingly at the train.  Dean shut the curtain violently and the car jerked forward again, echoing his reaction, pulling away from the brothel and into the station a block further on.  
  
"Dean?"  
  
"Nothing, Sam," Dean evaded, "just a little pain."  
  
***  
  
The hour in the station was wasted for Dean, who refused to set foot outside, claiming his side ached.  Sam went for some air, not overly worried, but came back early and stood in the corridor, watching Dean through the glass.  
  
Dean seemed even paler when the train, now mercifully much less crowded, began pulling out of the station.    "Come out here, Dean, get some fresh air, move a little."    
  
Sam had opened the top window in the corridor and a breeze came through, cooling him and drying the wet hairs that clung to the back of his neck.  Dean joined him, once the main part of the city was behind them, and regretted his earlier cowardice immediately.  The air was fresh and blew cooler and drier as the train sped up.    
  
Dean kept close to Sam.  It was safer with him, in whatever future was coming, than in the pitfalls of his past.  Their hands touched occasionally as they held onto the window; Sam moved his against Dean's and left it there.  Their hips rubbed as well, bumping with the gentle roll of the car.  They enjoyed being with someone, not alone.  
  
Dean had no desire to see Sal now, he realized.  She wouldn't understand Sam, and might even do him harm.  Whatever hold she'd had over Dean all those years, it was worse than what he'd done with Sam, and Sam wouldn't understand.  
  
Sam hoped to shake, or at least ignore, his attraction to Dean; instead, the depth of his need was overwhelming his ability to focus on their hunt for the fire demon.  To distract himself, he asked, "Why did you come to Kansas City?"  
  
Dean, in the tangle of his own thoughts, didn't answer immediately.   
  
"You know, when I came back from Lawrence," Sam clarified. "Pearl said you came here every few months.  To see Sally Goodheart.  Tell me that wasn't her real name."  
  
Dean, cool and dry at last, broke into a fresh sweat. What Sal had done to him, and for him; how she'd wielded him as her weapon against the powerful interests in Kansas City -- was going to remain his secret. He stood there with his eyes closed for a while, then said casually, "She's an old friend.  Rescued me, gave me a home.  She ran the local brothel."  
  
"You were raised by a madam?  You said your relatives abandoned you here when you were five."  
  
"So they did."  
  
"Well that explains a lot," Sam chuckled, fascinated.  
  
The diversion worked perfectly; Dean kept his answers on the lighter side of his life, the more lurid the better.  His decision to try his own hand at the business, away from Sal, was the final flourish that made Sam believe that Sally Goodheart was better left behind in Kansas City, untouched.  
  
They talked all day and into the afternoon, pacing the train corridor and swapping stories. Sam recounted his training with the Widow Aulty, from whom he had learned skill with a knife, and how to avoid more than one kind of child-eating spirit of the woods.  Dean was rapt as Sam spoke of the supernatural.  Night was falling ahead of them, and the train rolled in and out of small towns as the sky darkened, but they hardly noticed where they were going.  
  
After they'd eaten some of the food from their packs, Dean fell asleep quickly in his seat.  Sam was lost in thoughts of his early mentors, a couple of hunters who'd taken his side against those who called him a killer.  Like surrogate parents, they pushed him in the direction he needed to go. They were a couple who hunted together, a model for him and Dean.  Sam dozed inside this memory for as long as it lasted.  
  
***  
  
The conductor rapped on the door and entered, his lamp swinging in the darkness as he asked for their tickets.  He was new, part of the train's night crew.  
"What time is it, Sam?" Dean said sleepily from his seat opposite, their legs intertwined in a warm connection that had helped them sleep soundly.    
  
"Nearly midnight, sir," said the conductor brusquely.  "We're ten miles out of St. Louis, by Creve Coeur.  You'd have done better to take the night train from Salina, not arrive at St. Louis so late that way.  You won't find a decent place open to take you in."    
  
"We'll do fine," said Sam, disentangling his legs from their intimacy with Dean's.    
  
"This ticket from Salina?" the conductor asked, holding it to the lamps in the hallway now, rubbing it with his thumb.      
  
"Fools out there, can't get the tickets right," Dean offered.  Sam glared at him, but it was too late.  
  
"Something about this…" he said quietly.  "You two stay right here. I'll be back in a few minutes.  Need to ask the boss what kind of tickets they're using these days."  
  
When he'd gone, Sam stuck his head out in the corridor to check and then said softly, "Get your bags.  Follow me up to the front of the car."  
  
"We can't just move up a car."  
  
"We're not going to – we're going to jump."  
  
***  
  
 _August 12, 1872  - Creve Coeur, Missouri_  
  
The train slowed on the slight grade but didn't stop – Creve Coeur wasn't enough of a township to warrant its own station.  With the night wind buffeting them on the already unsteady steps, Sam leaned out to scan the tracks and the banks they'd have to jump to.  Dean held his arm tightly, even though Sam had a strong grip on the handrail.  
  
"Dean, if we get caught, we get questioned, checked…problems follow."  
  
"If I could argue for the non-deadly choice, Sam, I'm very confident in my ability to talk the conductor out of any concerns he has."  
  
Sam swung out again on his long arm for a last look, one pack dangling from his shoulder, the smaller one in his free hand.  A sloping berm covered with thick grass seemed to offer a soft spot, and it ran as far as he could see in the dim light cast by the train windows ahead of them.   
  
"Sam, this wound just healed," Dean said, increasingly resigned to Sam's unorthodox solution.  
  
"Now!" Sam yelled, flinging himself into the night.  He was gone.  
  
Dean hesitated, trying to see where Sam had landed, then leaped himself, worried that he'd lose Sam out there in the Missouri countryside.  And if I'm going to be limping for another six weeks, he'd better be there to be my crutch. _Stupid little brother._  
  
He hit abruptly, feet knocked out from under him as he tumbled down the grassy swale.  There was only grass in his mouth and his eyes, pain from his side then his back and shoulder as the pack twisted around under him, then stillness.  The engine faded away slowly in the east while the crickets held back their late summer chorus.    
  
In the near black, Dean sat up slowly.  He called out Sam's name but got no response.  He followed the berm back, counting nearly a hundred steps before he saw something moving.  It was a figure among other figures in the pale starlight, moving like an animal on all fours, extra arms and legs rising around it.    
  
"Sam?  SAM!" Dean shouted, running the last bit.  The shape shook its head and the flop of hair showed it to be either a sheepdog or Sam.  
  
"Hit my head…," said the dog.  
  
"Here, stand up.  Slow, Sam."  
  
Dean had his arm under Sam's and lifted him up, held him close while he wobbled.  He hadn't been that close to Sam in weeks, without being injured or delirious.  He felt the heat of the moment radiating from Sam's back, where his hand was gripping firmly.  
  
"You okay?" Dean asked.  
  
"Hit my head," Sam repeated.  
  
Dean felt carefully, but there was no blood, only a small, growing lump forming at the back; Sam winced and pulled Dean tighter to him when Dean touched it.  He turned to look at Dean then, wanting to bury his face in Dean's neck and let Missouri and Kansas and the rest of it just be a bad memory.     
  
The wind had slackened and he could smell the sweet clover that Dean had crushed on his way down the slope.  The enticement was strong, this man with his arm around him, a man he knew he loved, before demons and disaster came to them.  The aroma was obliterated by a stench so horrific that it drove them apart as they attempted to cover their noses, Dean with his hand, Sam with his shirt, stumbling back to escape the onslaught.  Dean tripped over something and looked down on the human thighbone he'd just snapped.  
  
"Sam, what the-?!"  
  
Sam dug a flare out of his pack and struck it; he saw what he'd hit – a pile of bones, skulls and jaws and hands, some still attached, others painfully askew and disjointed.  The ones that still had flesh were crawling with bugs.  Dean stood deep amid the corpses, huffing out his fear and disgust. Death he'd seen, but not a massacre like this. There were more than a dozen, all dumped in a heap, then scattered by scavengers.  
  
"Gotta love small towns.  Let's see if they do this to all the strangers who drop in unannounced."   
  
"Small towns don't work that way," Sam replied, swinging the flare to get a view of the whole field.      
  
"I've been in a few," Dean said.  
  
"But you haven't lived in any, have you?  Dean, these are men and women, even some children.  They're from Creve Coeur."  
  
"Too poor to afford a graveyard?"  
  
"More likely gone missing. This is an outsider doing this."  He looked back along the berm. "There's a road back there, at the cut.  Saw it before we jumped.  Let's see where it leads."  
  
"I'm going to add this to the list of near-death experiences I've had with you."  
  
"We've had," Sam corrected him, with just a hint of frustration.  In truth he was thrilled to be hunting and by the time they reached the cut, he was smiling.  
  
"You're enjoying this!" Dean realized, astonished.  "We could find a good meal and a bed, but you want to find the Creve Coeur Killer."  
  
"It's past midnight," Sam reminded him.  "Even in St. Louis we'd be-"   
  
He was interrupted by a shotgun blast that came far too close.  Dean was on the ground, watching a line of trees as he fished a gun from the pack.  Everything was covered with holy water as it gurgled out of the holes in the flask.  
  
"We're looking for food and lodging!" Dean yelled as he tried to shake the holy water from the gun.  
  
There was a long silence, then a lamp was uncovered, perhaps fifty feet ahead.  The distrustful face was lit from below; the shotgun aimed at them was lit from above in an equally threatening orange light.  
  
"What you say?"  
  
"Food and lodging.  Don't shoot," Dean yelled, hiding the gun behind him as the man approached.   
  
"At this hour?  Who in Hell are you?"  
  
"My name's Nate.  Nate Hawthorne," Dean ventured.  
  
"Like the writer?"  
  
Sam groaned softly, and Dean shrugged at him, pressing on.  
  
"Our folks were big readers," he said.   
  
The man with the shotgun approached cautiously; Sam noticed another, smaller figure hiding in the bushes closer to them, but that one had lowered its gun.  
  
"We missed our train.  Wondered if we could find a place for the night," Sam asked.  His voice had a ring of desperation, and his eyes were large.  
  
"You don't appear to be dead or possessed by the devil, so you can stay in our shed," the man said perfunctorily.    
  
"Great.  Love sheds," muttered Dean.  
  
***  
  
At the house, a simple one-story settler's cabin, Dean noticed a sign that hung by the door.   It had been freshly repainted to say "The Greenwoods".    
  
"You must be Mr. Greenwood," Dean said, but the response was "Course I am," so he let the conversation die.  
  
Greenwood, assisted by his daughter, brought in some few leftovers from dinner, which Sam and Dean devoured. The daughter shared stories while they ate.  
  
"You come just the right time, if you come to help us," said the father.  
  
"Yeah, the creepy ones will be here any day," said the daughter, still carrying the gun she'd had earlier.    
  
"Hush, you," said the man next to her, but not in a tone that meant to hush up.  "My daughter thinks she has it all figured out."  
  
"I _do_.  They come every week, take someone.  You make a deal, wait a week, get your wish.  'Cept not any old wish."  
  
"Who's giving you these wishes?" Sam asked her cautiously, his heart sinking.  It sounded more like a demon than anything else.  
  
"That old witch, some say.  Benjamin."  
  
"Benjamin?" Dean asked.  "Never heard of a witch named Benjamin."  
  
"He was a slave, not one of ours, course, but from Alabama, or down there somewhere.  He used to give good wishes, but now it's mostly not so good."  
  
"You hush now," said the father, and he meant it this time.    
  
The young girl took her gun and left the room in a huff.  Sam watched the father, thinking he saw fear in his face for a second.  
  
"Where is this witch?" Sam asked.  
  
"He finds you," said the man, and stood up suddenly, gesturing to the back door.  "Storm cellar's more comfortable than the shed," he muttered.  "You need your rest and so do we."  
  
***  
  
"Storm cellar? I'd have taken the shed," Dean complained, but Sam was lost in thought.  "Is there even a bed?  Hey, Mr. Thinker.  No bed." He gestured around them, nearly hitting his hand on the dirt wall.  
  
"Dean we've got something here.  A witch at least, maybe a demon."  
  
"Oh, no, Sam – not another demon.  I'm all for killing the sons of bitches, but there's more to do on this Earth.  And more comfortable places to sleep well before we do it."  
  
"Here's a bedroll and a couple pillows," said the girl from the storm door above them.  Dean caught the stuff just in time and the door slammed shut, sifting dust down on him.  
  
"Dean, it's a demon, making deals, I can feel it – and we need to stop it.  I can show you how."  
  
The bedroll was narrow and Sam too long for it.  Rather than lie next to Sam, Dean paced the tiny shelter until Sam grabbed his ankle to avoid a boot to the face and told him to get some sleep.  He fell asleep with Sam's back against his and woke with his face in the dirt.  Sam had the bedroll to himself and Dean was as stiff as he could recall ever being, right between his legs.  He hadn't relieved himself of the built-up tension in nearly three days, and being cooped up with Sam had only intensified the feelings from the train corridor and the night before, before the corpses entered the picture.  
  
"You ready for release?" laughed Greenwood at the opening above him, swung open now to a bright blue patch of sky.  Sam woke, and they clambered out, using the farm's one outhouse and then a washroom with icy water.   
  
The girl refused to talk more about Benjamin, but the father pointed them toward town, away from the place where the bodies were piled.  They hadn't mentioned that.  A visit to Ted Pratch at the general store was strongly suggested.  Greenwood stood and watched them until they'd turned toward town at the crossroads.  
  
***  
  
Ted Pratch was a gushing fountain of information and in a remarkably good mood for a man with no customers.    
  
"It's been odd, yep.  But it's cleared out the worst of the worst in this stinking town.   No more gripes, and that's a blessing."  
  
"Doesn't seem like it would help your business any," Dean ventured.  
  
"Son, when you don't have to listen to people whine about their petty problems all day, that's worth a few dollars less in trade.  _'Oh, my brother Carl, that thief!'_ he mocked. _'Betty Ann, that no good little–; if she weren't kin, I'd kill her.'_ "    
  
His voices were so uncannily accurate that Dean had to laugh.   
  
"And people are dying?" Sam said, quietly aghast.  
  
"Gracious no, just gone on vacation, far enough that it'll take them half an age to get home and by then they'll have had time to think about their failings."  
  
***  
  
"Is it just me, or is this town a little too happy?" Dean asked.   They left the main street for where Pratch had said Benjamin lived, walking in silence for a moment until Sam answered.  
  
"If all your problems vanished, wouldn't you be cheerful?"  
  
"Well, yeah, I guess, but… no, I'd be suspicious.  And there'd be more problems soon enough."  
  
"That's about the closest you've sounded to a hunter since I met you."  
  
Dean turned that over for a while, trying to decide if it was a compliment or not.  
  
"We need a ride, so we don't have to walk everywhere," Sam said, stopping in the shade of a tree.  "Maybe you could use that charm you keep talking about to rustle us up some horses."  
  
The day had become quite hot, and the cicadas whirring in the trees only made it seem hotter.  Dean, pressing into the narrow noontime shade, missed the tone in Sam's voice; he was distracted by Sam's unbuttoned shirt, now wide open at the neck to cool him off.  He heard "horses" clearly enough, though,  and was no longer excited.      
  
"What we need is a carriage.  We'd get around faster, not have to forge tickets."  Dean paused, thinking.  "They're hard to steal."   
  
"Could you go try?" Sam asked, half seriously, but Dean took it as a challenge.  
  
"I'll see what I can do," he replied, wandering up from the crossroad toward the next farm's barn, leaving Sam gaping.  
  
Sam turned to look down the main road for any sign of Benjamin's place and saw a man standing there in the crossroads, a very young man, barely eighteen but confident.  
  
"You need a tall cool drink, from the look of it, out in this heat," said the young man.  
  
Sam had heard no approach and the man was not sweating in the least.  
  
"He'll never find a carriage at the Walden place.  They've been gone for weeks.  But I suspect he's not looking for a carriage.  He has other needs at the moment."    
  
"Dean?" Sam called up the road but Dean was gone, vanished among the line of trees.  The cicadas had fallen silent as well.  
  
"Where has he gotten off to?" Benjamin leered.  
  
"Benjamin," Sam said, facing him.  
  
"When you get tired of being his keeper, you come see me, out at the end of the road there," the young man said, pointing in the direction they'd been heading.  "I can send him away for a while - take his weight off your shoulders."  
  
Sam took off running toward where he'd last seen Dean.  He looked back once at the empty crossroads, but Benjamin had vanished.  When he got to the barn, he found it empty as well.  
  
"Dean!" he shouted, afraid now that he'd made some deal without realizing it.  No reply came.  
  
Dean was behind the barn, tipping toward a release he desperately needed, and Sam's voice pushed him over.  As his vision cleared, he buttoned up and reappeared, a satchel in front of him, only to find Sam looking distraught.  
  
"Dean!" Sam said with relief, hurrying to him.  
  
"What all the commotion?  Is someone in the main house?" he whispered.  
  
"I met Benjamin.  He's possessed, probably."  His voice was excited and energetic.  
  
"Possessed, probably?"  Dean asked with concern.  
  
"Listen, he offered me a deal."  
  
"For what?!"   
  
"Well, that's not important.  He's expecting us."  
  
"This is going to go on the list too, I can just tell."  
  
***  
  
The house was in good condition.  They could see Benjamin in the front yard, clipping the hedges.  
  
"Sam, we can't just hunt people down that we think are weird.  You think we'd ever be done?" Dean whispered.  "What exactly do you know about demons, anyhow?  Have you ever fought a real demon?"  
  
"I know how to stop them.  I have an exorcism ritual in the books I took from the Gresses."  
  
"That would be the best thing? An exorcism?"  Dean was turned practically the other way round so that Benjamin wouldn't hear him.  
  
"Howdy there," said Benjamin, waving the clippers at them.  
  
Sam didn't get to answer because he was knocked out, as if Benjamin's wave had hit him hard across the cheek.  He woke up across from Dean, in similar restraints, rope around his legs and arms, his mouth filled with a thick cloth tied tightly around his head.  In front of them was the same young man, now less pleasant and obliging.  His eyes were black, edge to edge.  
  
"Hunters.  You think the only thing you need is an incantation and a splash of holy water and I'll be your simpering slave?  He paused and looked at Dean, leaned over and sniffed.    
  
"Who's been spilling his seed?" he grinned, to Dean's muffled curse.  
  
Dean flushed, looked quickly over at Sam, then back at the demon, praying that "demons lie" was the only thought in Sam's mind.  
  
"They want you two – almost had you in Salina. I'm set forever if I just hand you over – leave this shithole of humanity to do their own dirty work.  Samuel Bennett and his brother Dean, the most wanted, on the run from the greatest blasphemy you ever committed against your betters-"  
  
His choked on that word and a wisp of black smoke curled from his lips, then slipped back into him.

 

 


	4. Crash Course

_August 12, 1872_ _Creve Coeur, Missouri_  
  
Benjamin wavered briefly, then, with force of will it seemed, he pulled the smoke back into him.  A low murmuring caught Sam's attention, then Dean's, but Benjamin was already painfully aware of every syllable.  It was an ancient curse that he heard, a blight on all like him, and it would be his end.  The door behind him burst open violently and the booted foot came down on the planks of the kitchen floor.  It was all they saw before the water hit them and Benjamin screamed.  
  
The man who stood over the now-kneeling Benjamin had slowed down his speech – Sam knew where the litany would lead because he'd said it once himself a few years earlier, but never so slowly.  The smoke rose out of Benjamin's mouth as the man wrapped him in a blanket covered with ancient symbols woven in a dark fiber.  Benjamin stopped struggling, even as the holy water steamed on his skin.  
  
Sam and Dean looked up at the man for release, but he ignored their muffled cries.  He was staring intently down at the contorted face, the black smoke spilling forth like a thick syrup.  He laid a crucifix across Benjamin's mouth as he tipped his head back.  
  
"No, no, you stay," the man whispered softly.  He had the distinct tone of a Boston man, jet black hair and long, thin fingers that he ran over the cross.  When he stopped reciting the Latin phrases, the smoke curled back into Benjamin's throat and he choked and swore.  
  
"You forget the words, hunter?"  The last word was drenched in hatred.  
  
"Did you forget the way to salvation?"  
  
Benjamin glared at him.  
  
"Tell me what you're doing here, lurking around my front doorstep like a mongrel."  
  
"We go where we please," Benjamin snarled.  "The old ways are changing.  You'll fall, soon enough, your precious city will fall, your church will fall, piece by piece, to us."  
  
The man struck Benjamin so hard that he toppled back between Sam and Dean's feet, but they remained invisible to him.  Dean's eyes were wide and said only "WHAT IS THIS?" to Sam.  Sam couldn't explain, but he hoped Dean would understand.   
  
The man was on the demon in a single swift movement, opening his mouth and pouring salt into it, holy water on top of that.  The demon bucked up but the man jammed his knee so hard against its chin that the sound of Benjamin's jaw snapping was a shock – both its brutality and the reaction of the demon inside, which vomited salt and water back onto the man, eyes blazing with rage.  
  
The hunter began reciting the exorcism again, pausing after each phrase to repeat his question, "What are you doing here?"  
  
The demon on the floor between them spoke awkwardly through a broken jaw but seemed immune to the pain.   
  
"Our own little heresy.  The dream we suffered for, until the Old One blessed us and made us the instruments of His will.  We will corrupt you humans, entirely.  Without your protectors, you will be defenseless – lost in the darkness begging for us to light your way. When the Recurrence is ended and the brothers are gone forever, all of you will follow them into Hell!  
  
As the demon spat out "the brothers," his eyes looked at Dean, then at Sam, but the hunter only pressed tighter on him, hungry for details.  He took a dagger and carved symbols into Benjamin's forehead, seven in all; they bled freely across his face as Dean watched in horror.   
  
"Your kind has no dominion in the world of the Lord," said the hunter.  "Your plans die here with you."    
  
When he resumed the litany, the carvings burned and the demon writhed.  The man spoke louder and louder over the shrieks of the thing that was being drawn out of Benjamin's body, rising from his mouth and steaming out of the blood that poured faster now.  The blood itself seemed to catch fire and Benjamin glowed inside. The hunter grabbed the crucifix from the floor where it had fallen and whispered a new prayer as the smoke and flames flickered out slowly, leaving the room dim and silent.  Night had fallen.  
  
Sam's eyes were wide, nearly as wide as Dean's as they watched the demon die.  Dean screamed through his heavy gag as a hand closed on his ankle, but he couldn't move.  On the floor, Benjamin stirred, panicked at finding himself free from a nightmare like no other, but bloodied and in pain.  
  
"Who are you?" he strangled out, looking up at Sam, Dean, and the hunter.  
  
"May the Lord Jesus have mercy on your soul," said the hunter softly, then plunged the dagger swiftly up under Benjamin's chin.  The room was silent again.  The man knelt there, deep in a prayer to the saints and to God.  Sam struggled violently against his bindings, horrified at the murder of an innocent civilian then stared at Dean, whose eyes were closed tight.  
  
The hunter stood after a moment and wiped his blade clean.  He cut their bonds swiftly and pulled their gags off – Dean was ready to light into him when the man said firmly, "You've seen the hand of the Lord at work here.  Kneel and thank God for his mercy."  
  
"You're insane!  You can say 'God' all you want, but you just killed a man," Sam shouted.  
  
"Those who have been possessed by such demons are never clean again. Who knows how long the demon had been in him?  Or why he let it in.  Now, give thanks for your safe rescue or your souls would be in Hell too."  
  
"You're sick!" Dean snapped.  
  
"I'm a hunter.  I do the Lord's work to keep your souls from ruin."  
  
"I think what I just had to watch ruined my soul pretty damn well," said Dean, fighting a rising nausea.  
  
"See that you leave town," the man said, turning to leave.  "And stay out of St. Louis if you've no respect for God."  
  
"That's where we were headed," Sam said suddenly.    
  
"Then head somewhere else."  
  
"We have to get to St. Louis.  We're supposed to meet someone there who can help us," Sam continued, ignoring Dean's glare questioning the sanity of asking what he was about to ask.   
  
"I've just helped you.  I'm not sure what more you expect."  
  
"Just a ride then, if you have one."  
  
***  
  
The road to St. Louis was long, made longer by the hard bed of the cart they rode in and longer again when they detoured north before the city, heading for a place the hunter said they could rest until morning.  He spoke glowingly of the cathedrals and churches of his city, "the Rome of the West" he called it, where true Catholicism kept the devil from the door.   
  
Sam had watched the way the man moved, expertly controlling and manipulating the demon, and how he calmly set fire to Benjamin's house as they left.  He shared his conclusion with Dean, then spoke up.  
  
"We're looking for a man named Kearney," Sam said, and waited, gauging the reaction.  
  
"I don't know anyone named Kearney in St. Louis.  What do you need him for?" asked the man, not even turning around.  
  
"We're up against something we've never encountered.  Something like what you just killed."  
  
"And who are you two, out getting caught by demons in little hamlets like Creve Coeur?"  
  
"My name's Remy," said Dean, giving his best grin as the man looked back.   
  
Sam turned to look at Dean, eyes wide.  
  
" _Remy?!_ " Sam said softly and without a trace of humor.  
  
"Well, 'Nate Hawthorne' jumped a train heading to St. Louis with a bogus ticket.  Can't very well use that, can I?" Dean argued persuasively.  
  
"It's a pleasure, Mr. Remy.  God bless you and welcome to St. Louis."  
  
"And this handsome fellow is Romeo," Dean continued.  
  
Sam's brows shot up as his mouth snapped shut.  He composed a smile and turned to wave at the man ahead of them on the horse. He then turned back and kicked Dean.  
  
"A pleasure as well, Mr. Romeo.  I only hope you didn't come by that unfortunate name because you lead a young woman to her doom."  
  
"Don't worry," said Dean, chuckling.    
  
Sam sulked in the silence that followed, his face sore from glaring.  
  
***  
  
After nearly an hour of bumping and jostling on the cart behind Kearney's horse, they approached a two-story residence with nearly twenty windows upstairs and down.    
  
"Will we be going to St. Louis?  Sam asked.  
  
"Oh, you're closer than you were.  We'll stay here at the convent the night and find a proper place for you tomorrow."  
  
"Conv-" was all Dean got out before a stern voice interrupted.  
  
"Mr. Kearney, the hour is late," called an old woman waiting by the front door as they rolled onto the gravel drive.  "You should not be out."  
  
"The Lord has blessed this night, Mother Anne.  A demon has been cast out.  A powerful one."    
  
The nun crossed herself at the news, whispering a silent prayer.    
  
"And I've brought in two amateur hunters for training, Mr. Remy and Mr. – uh, he says his name is Romeo."  
  
"Well, you take your room in the carriage house, Mr. Kearney; they can have the stables."    
  
"How Biblical," Dean muttered, but in the quiet night Mother Anne caught it clearly.  
  
"You should perhaps reread that portion of the gospels, Mr. Remy, and discover the multitude of dissimilarities."  
  
"They'll be having nightmares tonight," Kearney laughed.  "But tomorrow you'll tell me what you need my help for, won't you?  Take your packs, and watch out for the horses.  They kick."    
  
Dean flinched, and his scowl grew deeper.  
  
***  
  
In a corner of the barn that wasn't occupied by an animal or its droppings, they found a small straw mattress big enough for two children.  Left alone with a small dish of fruit and some water to drink, they turned on each other.  
  
"Remy? ROMEO?!  What were you thinking?"  
  
"I was _thinking_ ," and Dean emphasized the word, "that we shouldn't use the names of wanted criminals, nice as they were, Sam."  
  
"But Romeo?"  
  
"He said this was the Rome of the West.  Got me thinking of stories I read in Sal's books.  Roman history.  Romulus and Remus were brothers, you know."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Sam said, and the anger passed.  
  
The word hurt; it brought everything back and deepened it, taking advantage of the eight hours of sleep they'd had in the past three days to worm into their emotions.  It dangled a desire in front of them to not be alone in the world, and yet made them guilty of so much that the world didn't allow.  
  
"Dean, you do know what happened, right?  In that story?"  Sam said after a moment.  
  
"Hmmm?"  Dean was half asleep already.  "They fought over who was right, and Romulus killed Remus."  
  
"Damn."    
  
"I wouldn't-"   
  
"Shut up, Sam.  You're stuck with Romeo for now.  Romeo in a convent," he giggled sleepily.  
  
It felt good to hear Dean laugh, to laugh with him after months of pain.  But when he slipped into sleep, Sam heard Benjamin's screams.  Dean, next to him but not touching, saw the images of that moment, the dagger that ended a life.  He saw himself on the ground, like Benjamin, with Sam over him.   
   
***  
  
 _September 15, 1872   The Cathedral of St. Louis, Missouri_  
  
"Life with the brothers in Florissant Seminary agreeing with you any better after a month?" Kearney asked.  
  
"The barn at the convent was something I thought I'd never appreciate, but I do now," Dean said, smiling insincerely.  
  
"We appreciate the lodging.  It's a little more severe than… than Remy's used to, that's all," Sam explained.  
  
"They can only spare the one room," Kearney apologized, as he had many times.  
  
"On the positive side, I've gotten over my intense dislike of riding horses and now just plain dislike it," Dean added.  "Nothing like a brisk ride for an hour every morning.  Who knew St. Louis was so _frosty_ this time of year?"  
  
"They light the furnace in October, when it's needed.  Now let's get back to your training," Kearney said tersely.  
  
Kearney looked up at the towering spire above, a sign of his power visible from miles around and his source of inspiration. Sam wondered how the man had worked his way into the graces of the bishop, and if the church leaders knew all of what he did.    
  
He led them down the stairs to the basement room that had become a second home, not lavishly carved and decorated or lighted by twinkling votives like the massive cathedral above them.  It was a spare stone room, unheated and windowless, lit by a few lamps, although Kearney favored "night training" for their fights.  
  
The door closed behind them, iron against stone, like a trap.    
  
_This whole city's become a trap for us_ , Dean thought.  He'd learned more about hunting than he ever thought he would, and he could do a few things better than Sam even, which irritated Sam no end.  But the days in Salina, the joy of discovering their love for each other by a lazy river, of standing side by side on the landing of the brothel watching his customers… _all of that gone in just four months and no way to get it back but hunt the fire demon down._  
  
***  
  
 _September 22, 1872_    St. Louis, Missouri  
  
They were indebted to Kearney for his offer of food and lodging indefinitely if they worked with him to become better hunters, grateful for the knowledge he provided week after week, and yet frustrated at their inability to find, in all his secret books, any lore about what attacked them and their family.  Sam sensed they would have to pay back their debts soon enough.  
  
After the week's training in knife skills and hand-to-hand combat, with a little more advanced Latin on top of it all, Dean was exhausted.  Sam suggested getting away from Kearney and taking a walk through the city proper.  
  
"Have a little fun, maybe?"  Sam asked, knowing that Dean was feeling as stifled as he was.    
  
On the way into town, in a particularly seedy section Dean had gravitated toward, they confirmed what Dean most feared: he'd lost it.  The charm was still there, the wink and the grin that had once opened doors, and it still had a visible effect on Sam, for all the good that did.  But doors remained closed, or worse, closed in his face.  Free food was a thing of the past, favors were not granted, information and tips had stopped flowing.  Sam was doing no better, but for Dean to fail so completely in his strongest skill was unsettling to both of them.  
  
"It's Kearney. Just being around him is making me holier."  
  
"Dean –"  
  
"He's a fanatic, Sam.  Surely the resemblance to Mrs. Tyler and her Temperance League is obvious."  
  
"Kearney drinks."  
  
"Kearney drinks sacramental wine and the occasional beer.  Here, watch this."    
  
Dean went up to a woman he recognized as a saloon girl, supplementing her income from her own front window.  She leaned out, all smiles and eyelashes and overflowing bosom.  Sam hung back.    
  
"A good evening to you," Dean began, but she'd already lost her smile.   
  
"You new in town?" she asked, pulling her shawl over her wares.  
  
"Been here for a couple of months."  The corner of his mouth curled up as his eyes crinkled.      
  
"That so.  I haven't seen you.  Or your gawky friend there."  
  
Sam, for his part, was watching Dean's face.  If he'd been conscious of it, he would have tried to stop.  
  
"Well, where has your fine establishment been hiding you?" Dean asked, gently resting his hand on hers, never taking his eyes from her face.  
  
"If that's all you wanted to know, I'm sure there are plenty what could've told you."    
  
She withdrew her hand and Sam's eyebrows rose.  People didn't let go of Dean's hand easily.  Before he knew it, she'd slid the window shut and the curtains too.  
  
***   
  
"You actually stopped a prostitute from having sex," Sam said.  "We do need to get out of here."  
  
"It's this town, Sam.  Not just Kearney, not just the waft of celibacy from the Seminary, it's this damn city.  Rome of the West, my ass!  I've heard about Romans and this isn't nearly debauched enough."  
  
"It's not just you."  
  
"You noticed the celibacy too?"  
  
"Dean, I haven't found a single hunter here.  None of the usual locations, none of the signs.  Every place I've heard was a hangout… they're deserted, or filled with normal people."  
  
"We're normal people." Dean sounded hurt.  
  
"No, Dean, we're being trained by a very talented-"  
  
"…bloodthirsty, psychotic,…"  
  
"-demon hunter.  There's a practical benefit."  
  
"Yeah, Sam, I get that, but there's more out there.  We're trying to find out what destroyed our family, and as good as Kearney is, I'm not going to ask him what we really need to know.  He might kill us first.  I need a drink."  
  
"I'll join you.  Order four."  
  
***  
  
 _October 11, 1872_  
  
Kearney spent weeks showing them books they'd never dreamed existed, even after the ones they'd found at the Gresses' place.  He tutored them with his usual heavy hand – lists of demons and angels, texts so old they were nearly dust, or so darkly evil that the room seemed to dim when they were opened. Sam committed several rites to memory.  They were now suddenly eager learners, but no matter how dangerous the material they studied became, no book mentioned a creature of fire like they'd seen twice in Salina, like the one that reduced their mother and father to ashes in seconds.  
  
"This one is about angels and demons," said Sam, lifting books from the trunk Kearney had dropped off at the room before he was called up to the bishop's office.  "And this one."  
  
"This looks like fun," Dean said, scooping an iron box from the bottom of the wooden container.   
  
Sam popped the lock open in a few seconds.    
  
" _The Races of Heaven and Hell_ ," Dean read off the first cover.  
  
"You know Spanish?"    
  
"I do, but that's Portuguese.  Molly taught me Spanish – some, anyway.  She was from Guatemala.  That's how she got her name."   
  
He stopped suddenly.  Sam looked up at him, waiting.  
  
"Her name?" he asked, seeing anger in Dean's expression.  
  
"Some shit called her Molly because she kept screaming for home after they took her.  She was eleven, Sam."  
  
Dean was furious at the long-ago injustice; her absence cut more intensely now.    
  
"We'll find her again, Dean; she said she'd known other hunters before me.  She couldn't have come with us anyway."  
  
"Yeah," Dean said and composed himself abruptly, shutting off the emotion.  " _Demigods of Time_ ," he read again, from the title of a scroll covered with indecipherable hieroglyphics below the Spanish title.  "God that sounds like a bad dime novel."  
  
A knock at the outside door, harsh and indiscreet, interrupted them.  The thumping continued until Sam opened the door to a rough-looking man with an ornate silver cross hung around his neck.  He jumped back at Sam's appearance.  
  
"Kearney.  Where is he?"   
  
"We're his assistants," Dean stated, coming forward.  "Mr. Remy and Mr. Romeo.  How can we help?"  
  
Dean radiated charisma, which silenced Sam's rising objections and, to their surprise, worked on the stranger as well.    
  
"Mr. Kearny said to come to him immediately if I saw or heard anything."   
  
"By all means, sit down here and tell us," Dean replied, putting his hand behind the man's elbow.  
  
Still suspicious but unable to resist Dean's arm guiding him into the stuffy room, the man sat.  
  
***  
  
"A …?"  
  
"Demon coach, with two horses," he said, finishing Dean's sentence.  
  
"Demon horses?" Dean ventured.  
  
"How should I know?" the man replied, unimpressed.  
  
"Where is it now?" Sam asked.  
  
"Out by Belleville, on the old trail.  Across the river in Illinois," he added, seeing their confusion.  "It comes when it can take you, when you most need help, they say.  That's when it appears…" he shuddered.  
  
"You can depend on us to get to the bottom of this," Dean said confidently, stopping Sam's protest with a look.  
  
"Dean!"  
  
"You get back to Belleville, keep safe.  We'll talk to Kearney, and be there tomorrow.  I promise," Dean said, shepherding the man toward the door.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Remy, Mr. Romeo!" the man said, grabbing Sam's hand and shaking it fiercely.  
  
***  
  
"If you don't stop disapproving, your head's going to explode, Sam.  It's a way _out_ of this place.  You've felt it; it's like we're in quicksand.  We're going nowhere."  
  
"And where are we going _now_ , exactly?"   
  
"To Belleville?"  
  
"And then?"  
  
"Well, anywhere.  We'll have a carriage of our own."  
  
"There's no carr-… oh, no. Dean, _no!_ "   
  
"It's a free coach.  Just needs a little demon removal.  We know a little more about that now than we did back in Salina."  
  
"That wasn't a demon."  
  
"Whatever it was, we can get to it or get away from it better with a coach.  No more horseback riding.  It's making me bowlegged."  
  
Sam steered the conversation back to their future, hoping for a plan, an idea, a place – anything that included both of them.  
  
"And then what?  Where are we going?"   
  
"Memphis? New Orleans?  Anywhere I can get a good deal on a business, Sam."   
  
"You want to run a brothel again?"  
  
"I know what I'm good at."   
  
"And Mom and Dad?"  
  
Dean had no fast reply.  The words of the Fire Demon were etched in his mind – his mother was in Hell, beyond rescue, his father was there too, and turning into a demon.  It made no sense.  He wanted to save them, but it wasn't clear how.   
  
"And how do we walk into Hell, Sam?  Some things just aren’t possible. I want to save them.  You know that.  Even Dad."  
  
***  
  
Sam was stung by Dean's continued dislike of John, despite understanding it now.  He'd been deceived too.  As he thought more about it, he was beginning to resent the lies his father had told him, good intentions or not.  The rest of the ride back to the Seminary was uncomfortably quiet. Sam looked over at Dean now and then, wondering if keeping Dean in his life meant giving up on hunting.  He could tell from the way Dean's eyes shifted that he was plotting their next move.  
  
It wouldn't be easy to get their stuff packed and head out of town unnoticed – and the ride to Belleville would be long and cold.  An early storm was on the way from the north and already the temperature was falling.  
  
Dean couldn't quite grasp the point of saving people from Hell, at least not until he had a demon coach to get there and back.  He was planning an attack on the demon coach, but he found himself distracted by his brother riding close beside him.  He liked when Sam looked over at him, but it made him nervous and interrupted his thinking.  He had few moments of time when he wasn't trapped in a church basement or in a tiny seminary room with Sam.  He needed these moments out in the open to sort out his desires.  
  
"Time to get out of town," Sam whispered, agreeing with Dean.  
  
When they arrived at the Seminary, the dormitory was deserted, the brothers either in classes or in the fields.  Dean put his hand on Sam's arm as they entered the second floor hall.  Sam was immediately alert.      
  
"You know I love you, right?" Dean asked, looking down the hall.  
  
"Yeah, Dean.  I know."  
  
"Okay then."  
  
Dean leaned against him, pushing him against the wall in the quiet hall and kissed him, something he'd needed to do and was now for the first time in months feeling free to do.  He had to stop soon.  It was too dangerous.  _Just end it._  
  
Sam didn't end it either, but after a while, it seemed to be over.  It passed and they let it pass.


	5. The Demon Coach of Belleville

_October 12, 1872   Belleville, Illinois_  
  
Frost and flurries covered the ground around Belleville with a sheen of silver-white crystals.   
  
One of the survivors of the demon coach had taken a gun to his head in the night, leaving behind his family as well as a confused, rambling note about "eyes like embers" and "the sound of dogs far off, coming closer," which had only served to fan the township into a panic.  A young woman and her sons had gone missing from the neighboring village the night before and were presumed to be the latest victims.  
  
"Well, the demons steal their souls," said one woman near the casket, addressing Sam.  "Ride off to Hell with them, that's right."  
  
"Mr. Romeo, if I might have a word with you?" Dean intervened, as Sam's lips tightened at the name.    
  
"Yes, Mr. Remy, what is it?" he asked icily, turning away from the woman.  
  
"Why am I not surprised that this ignorant little town is full of feverish disciples of Kearney's special brand of Catholicism?  I've never seen so many bloodthirsty killers waiting for an attack, waiting to be _unleashed_ on the demon world.  And most of 'em couldn't find the sharp end of a knife."  
  
"Their faith is strong," Sam replied.  
  
"So they say, frequently. And they need us, a couple of apprentice hunters, to save them?"  
  
"What did you learn, Dean?"  
  
"It's on the old trail over by the bluff, the one we rode in on.  No regular pattern, just when someone's on the road and in trouble, the coach appears."  
  
"So let's put ourselves in harm's way."  
  
"You say that far too easily, Sam."  
  
"There's a storm coming, a bad one," Sam replied, ignoring Dean's concern.  
  
"It's gonna be cold.  I hate cold," Dean said, shivering in anticipation.  "You wanted transportation, didn't you?"   
  
***  
  
 _October 13, 1872_  
  
Sam and Dean weren't the only ones stranded in the blizzard, but they had a tent, and a bit of warmth, and a long wait.  Lucille Lorimer and her sons weren't so lucky – they had almost lost the battle against the cold after their cart threw a wheel and lamed the horse.  Now, in the cramped seating compartment of a black Brougham coach, Lucille casually and unthinkingly expressed her gratitude and debt to the person most interested in her soul and the souls of her children.   
  
"Can we offer anything else, Lucille?" the woman asked generously.  
  
"Only a prayer that my boys' souls survive the night," Lucille replied, kissing the magnificent woman's hand in thanks.  
  
"That we can promise," said the woman, offering Lucille another drink to warm her, and to her boys, whom she kissed as if they were her own children.  
  
With a word and a sip of warming cider, the deal was settled.  Her sons would survive that night  
  
***.   
  
"Could you ask the driver to slow a bit?"  Lucille requested as politely as she could in the jostling carriage.  Her sons were pale with cold and nausea.  Lucille's bruises, the marks of her husband's anger, we becoming lost among the new ones the coach gave her.  
  
"We have to get you back," said her savior, the gracious lady who had helped her up from certain death, and whose eyes were deepest black, with the occasional flicker of red, she thought, although it could have been the lamplight.  
  
Sam and Dean were barely a mile ahead, wandering a stretch of road that had seemed tolerable at first, but as midnight had long passed was now inhospitably cold and snowy.    
  
"We're going to need a ride from these demons Sam, like it or not," Dean joked, but whether it was lost in the wind or Sam didn't appreciate the joke wasn't clear.  Sam kept walking.  He was lost in thoughts of cold nights on the road with his father, and Dean, running over the drifts to catch up, broke into his memories with a question.  
  
"Sam? Can I ask you about …" Dean hesitated.  
  
"Dean, you can ask anything.  Preferably something that will warm us both up."    
  
"Well, I know plenty about your perversions, and it's comforting that I share a couple of them, but you never told me about how you became a hunter.  Isn't that sort of critical?  
  
Sam was silent.  
  
"What happened to you after Dad died?"    
  
Sam laughed, because of all the things he'd told Dean in the months after they found out they were brothers, he'd never said much about life with or without their Dad, and Dean hadn't asked.  He had a grudge, Sam could tell, so he gave Dean the short answer.  
  
"I got out of town.  Grabbed a bag of stuff from the cabin, tried not to look at the ashes where Dad burn-… where he had been, then I threw up at the stench and left town for good.  Hunters, friends of Widow Aulty, got me two nights out and twenty miles down the valley.  They thought I'd killed both of them, even Dad – like I was the demon.  They treated me pretty roughly."  
  
"Horses!" Dean said, turning as Sam did.   
     
The coach crested the hill wildly, lamps shaking violently on each corner, horses snorting steam in the cold air, snowflakes parting before it and closing after.  It was driven on by a tall figure in a luxurious topcoat and gloves unsuited to a carriage driver. The coach skidded, never quite toppling over, and came to a halt in the empty stretch, forcing them to jump back.  
  
An elegant lady opened the door briefly and looked around, throwing a scarf around her neck.    "Is something wrong, dearest?  Why have you stopped?"  
  
"Further passengers in need of our aid, my darling."  He pointed to them, a few feet behind the carriage, and she alighted, closing the door behind her.  She had a coat almost as thick as the man's, trimmed with sable, over what appeared to be a thin gown.  She was beautiful, and made little effort to conceal the trap she was setting.  
  
"May we offer you transport and a warming drink?  You won't last long out here in this storm."  
  
Behind her, Dean could see the small brougham, which couldn't seat more than two inside comfortably.  It was a glossy black with the names _Zündler & Streichholz_ in fancy silver lettering that was flaking off the door.  Dean's eyes moved back to the woman.  
  
"We'll warm you up, I promise," she said.  The driver was watching, silent but intensely curious.  "Here, take a drink," she offered, holding up a flask.  It's whiskey.  The finest, I assure you."  
  
"Come on, friend!" Dean said to Sam, his demeanor changing.  "This is what we were praying for!"  
  
She motioned Dean and Sam forward.  Dean was about to take a sip, but Sam stayed his arm.    
  
"Gotta play by the rules, Sam," he whispered, then turned, smiling, and took a sip.  It was thick and complex and warmed him through.  "It's good," he said to Sam as much as to the woman.  
  
The woman smirked, a most unpleasant look for her face.  She moved back to the carriage and opened the door again, keeping her eyes on Sam and Dean.    
  
"Are we all going to fit in this tiny coach?" came Louise's voice.  
  
"No, my dear, it isn't so large.  But some people take priority," the woman said, eyeing Sam.  
  
"You have passengers already?" Sam asked, concerned.  
  
"Always room for one more," she said.  "We'll just cut out some of the filler so we can get the real meat in there."  
  
Sam reached for his holy water and the Bible Kearney had given him, in the shallow inside pockets of his coat.  
  
"You first, Dean," said the demon in a liquid tone.  
  
Dean stiffened at the familiarity and frowned.    
  
"I hate how everyone thinks they know us, Sam," Dean complained, pulling a gun from his pack.  
  
"Oh my!" came Lucille's shocked voice.  The woman slammed the door shut and sealed it.  There were screams and pounding from inside.  
  
"You're quite a prize, you two.  Better even than those two innocent little sons of hers, brothers to the end of their brief lives.  Now, we have the _real_ brothers, the ones everyone wants, Samuel and Dean.  You have no idea how the death of that pig Benjamin hurt us," she said, shifting from hurt to bitter sarcasm; "losing a self-centered dilettante like that."  Her voice was harder with each word.   
  
"For wiping him off the face of the earth, you have our undying gratitude," said the man, jumping down from the carriage seat and bowing.  
  
"And I really hate how the demon world has a such an awful sense of humor," Dean griped.    
  
He aimed the gun at the man, firing point blank, and the man flew back against the side of the carriage.  The sound of children screaming came again.  Sam flung the holy water at the woman, and she flicked her hand, sending him far down the icy road on his back, where he skidded to a halt.  
  
"I JUST got him that coat," said Dean as he aimed at her, but the man was back on his feet and trying to wrestle the gun from Dean.  
  
"Come on, shoot me again!  It was incredible," the man yelled.  Dean had his hands full, but Sam was already back in the game, reading the exorcism as loudly as he could.  It was less effective against two demons, so he concentrated on the woman.    
  
Dean was luring the man farther from the carriage, watching the side of the road for the stone landmark he needed.  The man's eyes flashed red like the woman's, and he lunged for Dean, lifting him up off the ground by the neck.  _Just keep walking_ , thought Dean. Somewhere under all the new snow were the symbols from Kearney's blanket dug into the dirt as they'd waited there, shivering by the side of a forsaken road in rural Illinois.  
  
The woman, hearing the words of exorcism, tore the Bible from Sam's hand with a flick of her wrist, and flung him face first against the carriage.  The family inside screamed again.  
  
Dean was close to asphyxiating when he found himself dropping to the ground, free to breathe once more.    
  
"What is THIS?" the man yelled, unable to move from the circle he couldn't see but could feel close around him.  "NO!" he roared, impotent in a devil's trap.  
  
Dean spoke the exorcism in record time as the woman came running, enraged, leaving Sam to flop to the ground and shake his head to meld the two Deans he saw back into one.  The man spewed black smoke, just like Benjamin had, his body shaking as it poured out of him; the woman was almost upon them when he gestured to her to stay back, and she halted, her face contorted in the rage and the terror of losing the man she'd been with for so long.   The demon melted the snow as it sank into the earth, showing her the limits of the circle, and she lunged around it to strike Dean as hard as she could.  When he staggered, she grabbed a rock from the road's edge and brought it down on his head.    
  
"DEAN!" Sam cried out, but Dean swayed, crumpled, then fell to his knees, blood pouring from his head into his eyes and across his face.  She stood over him, cursing him for her loss, a pain filling her that was worse than the tortures she'd endured in Hell.  She raised the rock again.  Sam used a different incantation, from one of the blackest books, one Kearney thought he'd kept from them.  She twisted her head around, her eyes wide at the power and the effrontery of this particular human.    
  
"Free them.  The woman, the boys.  Now." Sam ordered.  
  
"No, I can't," the demon said, her voice now full of desperation.  Dean collapsed into the snow, distracting Sam, and it was all the time she needed to vanish.    
  
Sam ran toward Dean.  
  
"I think I _will_ let them out, Samuel," came the demon's voice from behind him, no longer warm.  
  
She was at the coach door, not desperate in the least but icy with hatred.  She channeled it into a chillingly solicitous gesture.  
  
"Just this once.  Just for you."  
  
Dawn broke over the scene, sending a beam of sunlight through a gap in the clouds on the horizon.  It fell across the coach door, from which Lucille and her young sons stepped, trembling with relief.  Dean lay in the snow, the red stain spreading.  Sam pulled him up, semi-conscious, onto his lap, where he struggled to open his eyes.  
  
"One down, one ta go, Sam," he said, his voice slurring.  
  
Sam was unprepared for what he heard next.  Although he'd never heard the sound before, he recognized its unearthly nature.  It was far off, from no particular direction, and Lucille Lorimer seemed to hear it too.  The howling came again, much closer, and the little boys grabbed their mother's dress and clung tightly.    
  
Low growls mixed with snarling came from the road ahead, then closer, but there was nothing there in the otherwise peaceful morning.    
  
The boys hardly made a sound as they were ripped to pieces, but their mother's screams rang out loudly before her throat was bitten in half.  Sam and Dean heard the hellhounds but saw nothing, only blood and ravaged flesh, claw marks on ribboned bodies, bites that came from jaws the size of a man's forearm.  And then the silence of the morning returned as the hounds fell silent.  The woman gestured over the pile of corpses to the coach door.   
  
"Your turn now."  
  
"You already had a deal with the boys?" Sam asked, furious.  
  
"Poor Lucille gave up their souls. Sold them to Hell to save herself.  Like your mother did, poor sad Mary, to save that failure of a man you called your father."     
  
She watched her words strike, and resonate, even as they provoked anger.    
  
"You bitch!" Dean forced out, his head pounding.  
  
"Oh, I _like_ that reaction, Dean," she said.  "Yours too, Samuel, such a face.  Now get in," she said, convinced she had the upper hand.   
  
"Dean, say the Latin with me," Sam whispered down at his brother.  
  
" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ ," they began, nearly in unison.  
  
The woman clutched her stomach, grimacing.    
  
" _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,_..."  
  
Before they could go further, she threw back her head and black smoke burst forth into the air, a huge cloud of it, which snaked off into the woods.  
  
After a moment of stunned silence, Sam said, "I didn't know they could do that, I really didn't."  
  
"I guess Kearney didn't get to that lesson," Dean mumbled.  
  
"She took off when we said it together.  Maybe that's it, Dean."  
  
Dean didn't respond.  Not when Sam shook him, or yelled his name, or picked him up and put him in the coach and lashed the horses like he knew how to drive a team.  He didn't even know where the road was leading him.  
  
***  
  
In the tiny Baptist church, the preacher thundered at his congregation - _for thus do they learn to fear you, Lord_.  Sunday sunrise service was in full swing.  
  
"So the Lord said to Cain, _'Why are you angry? And why has your countenance fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted?'_ "  He paused for dramatic effect, and to let them respond, "Yes!"    
  
" _'And if you do not do well, sin lies at the door. And its desire is for you, but you should rule over it,'_ " he bellowed. The faithful in the front row were enraptured.  
  
The black coach raced down the snowy slope toward the church, driving the horses with it as they and Sam struggled to regain control.  
  
"Cain said to his brother Abel, 'Let’s go out to the field,' and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him."  
  
The middle rows had been pulled into his spell so early on that Sunday morning; they could see the weapon coming down as the priest's hand fell, see the blood spilling from Abel's beautiful head as his brother the Murderer stood over him.  
  
Sam leapt down from the seat and flung open the coach door.  Dean was barely conscious and still bleeding.  He was cold to the touch. Sam tried to wipe Dean's face clean of blood, but left only long red streaks across it.  
  
"Hold on Dean!" Sam said gently, lifting his brother onto his shoulder, and turning toward the glowing windows of the church.    
  
He moved as fast as he could through the small graveyard toward the front doors, where Dean slipped off his shoulder and slumped against his chest, his blood marking Sam's forehead as Sam steadied him.    
  
"And the Lord said unto Cain, _'Where is Abel thy brother?'_ And he said, 'I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?'"  
  
Sam held Dean tight against his chest, tears of frustration, fear and anger pouring down his face.  He kicked the doors open brutally and lurched in, holding his brother, both of them a mess of fresh and clotted blood, Dean's head lolling dangerously.  The folk at the rear of the church took it all in, in silent horror.  
  
"And the Lord said, _'What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground!'_ "  
  
"HELP!  My brother's been hurt! He's bleeding badly!  PLEASE help him!"  Sam's voice roared through the tiny wood-framed church, and as it reverberated, nearly the entire row nearest him fainted dead away.


	6. Malachi the Heretic

_October 13, 1872   Belleville, Illinois_  
  
The town doctor of Belleville was in the third row of the congregation that morning when Sam dragged Dean in, bloodied and unconscious.    
  
"What happened?" the doctor asked immediately, examining the injuries.  
  
Sam hadn't thought quite that far; he just wanted Dean to be okay again.  He nearly blurted out, "She hit him," but stopped himself.  
  
"He fell from the coach when it slipped on the ice.  I think he hit his head on a rock."    
  
"Yes, it looks like a sharp blow.  He'll need stitching, and a better doctor than I."  
  
"Bring him into my rooms," said the preacher, who ushered them through and then returned to calm the churchgoers, many of whom had been overcome by the spectacular true-to-life moment in his Cain and Abel sermon.  
  
The doctor continued his examination but Sam hovered over Dean, touching him at all times.  
  
"Sir, you can best help your brother by stepping back.  Did you come on foot or do you have a-"    
  
"I have the coach, but it's too small for him to lay down in."  
  
"Then we'll take my carriage. A box of coals should warm it nicely.  He needs to be seen by specialists before he worsens – I'll bring him to the Catholic hospital on Montgomery. Can you follow?"  
  
"Yes," Sam gulped, unwilling to let Dean out of his reach. "I'll meet you past the end of town."  
  
Dean was motionless.  
  
***  
  
Sam took the coach down a side road away from the church and met up with the doctor and his wagon some ways from the small town.  
  
"Thought I'd lost you," the doctor said, eyeing the wagon's obvious elegance and Sam's simple clothing. He left those questions unasked as they sped toward St. Louis.    
  
Sam vanished again near the hospital to park the coach on a side street, reappearing on foot in time to meet the doctor's carriage.  
  
Kearney was just inside the doors of the hospital, watching Dean be wheeled past, glaring silently at Sam as he followed. When Dean had been passed into the nurses' hands, Kearney seized Sam and pulled him around a corner.  
  
"You are out of your depth, playing with evil like that," Kearney berated him, holding Sam by the collar, despite Sam's greater height.    
  
"How did you even know?" Sam asked, wrenching Kearney's hand from his coat.     
  
"You think I don't hear about what happens in my province?"  
  
"You're no priest.  I've seen how the priests look at you," Sam said, his frustration coming out in anger now.  "You're a guard dog on a leash, not a warrior of God."  
  
"And you're no hunters, not you, not that one… and now pretending you're brothers, do you think people won't see through that?   
  
"He comes first," Sam shouted, pointing down the hall after Dean.  "You can yell at us later."    
  
Sam brushed him off and stormed into the exam room. Kearney tried to follow him, but a nurse shut the door with a terse "Family members only."  
  
***  
  
When Dean was stitched up and showed no further signs that his head injury was worsening, the hospital assigned him a private room on Kearney's authority.  Sam arrived at the room exactly when Kearney did, and Kearney pushed him ahead through the door, roughly.  Sam pulled Kearney's arm from his shoulder, twisting it until Kearney winced.  
  
"You're fools for taking on two demons," Kearney said, his voice different now.  
  
Sam fell silent and turned to look at Dean, letting Kearney go.  
  
"You knew they were here?  How?"  
  
"I have sources.  True hunters who fight with me.  You and that idiot you call your brother decided to go pick a fight against two of the worst we've seen yet.  I save you from one demon and you run into the arms of another – it's a miracle no innocent lives were lost."  
  
Sam bit the inside of his mouth as he thought of the two young brothers and their mother, desperate to survive, now ripped apart by hellhounds and frozen to the ground on a winding trail not far to the east.    
  
Kearney leaned in, examining Sam's face, and knew he had won his battle but lost the war.    
  
"Did someone die?" Kearney asked.  
  
"Three," Sam whispered.  
  
"Mary, Mother of God, guide their souls."  
  
"They were torn apart.  We couldn't see what did it, but we could –"  
  
A look of deep fear mixed with the anger on Kearney's face.   
  
"Torn apart?  You saw the marks of the black dogs?"  
  
"We saw the wounds."    
  
"Then count yourself lucky you only saw their trace.  Hearing them is far worse.  Those souls are beyond help now – they belong to Satan himself.  But-"  He hesitated, looking puzzled.  "-why would they die?  A deal for a soul is never for so short a time."  
  
Sam explained only what they'd seen, but omitted their guilt in providing a more valuable target than the souls of two young children.  He hoped to salvage the day, tip the balances their way.  His eyes were on Dean, now wrapped in bandages and wiped clean of blood but still motionless.  
  
"We killed one of the demons," he said, looking back at Kearney.  
  
"And angered the other.  You and your partner need to leave this town now; I can't risk further lives trying to protect you when you're recklessly seeking death."   
  
"You're welcome," came a weak voice from the bed.    
  
"Dean!" Sam said, his smile belying the concern in his eyes.    
  
Dean felt the bandages around his head gently, then looked at Kearney.  
  
"We got rid of the demon coach AND a demon for you," he said slowly, carefully forming the words as his head throbbed.  "You could be grateful."  
  
"Where is the coach?" Kearney asked, embarrassed at his oversight.  
  
"Vanished. Along with the demon we vanquished using your devil's trap," Dean said, holding Kearney's eye and trusting Sam to follow.  
  
"Vanished?  Just like that?  And the coach too?"  Kearney asked skeptically.  
  
"Why would we want a demon coach soaked in blood?" Sam replied, picking up Dean's lie.  "I know you've always trusted us," he added, watching Kearney back down under his calm words, "despite our errors."  
  
Kearney looked back and forth between them, then shook his head.  
  
"Trust or not, you're not to be saved.  You can make your own way as hunters and stay out of St. Louis.  Be gone in the week."  
  
"Happy to," Dean replied from his pillow.  
  
"May God bless and protect you," Kearney said, crossing himself.  "And me."  
  
He stopped at the door, and said the last thing they ever heard from him: "If you value your immortal souls, you need to see Mellie Constan."  
  
***  
  
 _October 17, 1872_     _St. Louis, Missouri_  
  
Dean recovered quickly under Sam's constant, watchful eyes and the care of the sisters in the city.  Still, his four days in the hospital brought back more than a few unpleasant memories for Sam when it came to what an awful patient Dean was.  For his part, Dean was beginning to wonder if Sam had lost all sense of fun and adventure.  "Lie still and get better" was all Sam seemed to say now.  For Sam, it made the surprise all the sweeter.  
  
"Sam, you _do_ love me!"  Dean yelled when they arrived at the seminary and saw what Sam had waiting for him there.  A grin stretched across his face, tugging at the stitches on his temple, but he ignored the sting of his wounds in the excitement, and laughed.    
  
Dean ran his hand over the coach's sturdy wheels and elliptical springs, over the mudguards and the handbrake and the smooth black surface, until he saw the blood splatters. His face fell.   
  
"You didn't clean it?"  
  
"I've been a little preoccupied, Dean," Sam explained.  "Getting you out of the hospital, helping Kearney cover up the woman and kids we got killed."    
  
"WE?  She made that deal on her own, before we ever came along, Sam.  Let's not borrow guilt when we have enough of our own making.  Give me a rag and some linseed oil.  I'll have this cleaned up in no time."  
  
***  
  
Sam had been over the coach more times than he could count, checking for hex bags, demonic signs, hidden curses and the like, while Dean realigned the wheels that Sam had damaged coming down the hill to the church.  He put a spit polish on the wood, and seemed surprisingly unbothered by the horses as he got them fitted. Together, they spent the rest of the morning cleaning the exterior of the coach, ignoring calls to prayers and to midday meal.    
  
"These old names on here…" Dean wondered, looking at the ornate lettering of _Zündler & Streichholz_. "Could we use those names instead of Remy and Romeo?"   
  
"With pleasure, Dean.  If you can pronounce them."  
  
"Who is this Mellie Constan, anyway?" Dean asked, tightening a bolt on the horse pole.  
  
"He's a former slave.  Found God, he likes to say.  Must be near to sixty now."  
  
"And you've met?"  
  
"Once, in Memphis.  He sent me to Lawrence the first time, to stop the Gresses.  When I overslept, I ended up in Salina, met you."  
  
"Three cheers for oversleeping," Dean said as he looked at Sam lying on his back to examine the seat cushions.  
  
His mouth curled up at the corner and he overtightened the bolt, splitting the pole in two with a loud crack.  
  
"Damn it!"   
  
He spent the next hour unhitching the team and searching the seminary's stables for a similar pole; in the end he had to fit a smaller one in its place, meaning they'd be slowed down to keep the horses from striking the coach at full gallop.  
  
***  
  
The bitter cold continued all week, making the possibility of a warmer Memphis seem quite attractive.  
  
Sam spent the afternoon deep in thought, which annoyed Dean no end.  Finally, he'd had enough.    
  
"Sam!  What are you doing to help, hmm?"  
  
"I'm trying to figure out why exactly Mellie wanted me to come help Nikolas and Michaela in Lawrence – how he knew there was trouble."    
  
"Same as you I guess – Nikolas told him. Why not try to figure out why Kearney, who says we're doomed, still cares enough to send us far away to someone who's just another hunter?"  
  
"He was scared."  
  
"Fear of God?"  
  
"Seriously, Dean. "  
  
"I saw it in him.  Folded like a house of cards.  He should be kicking our asses and making us kiss his ring – so why isn't he?"  
  
"Kearney didn’t think we were brothers," Sam said, waiting for Dean's take on that.  
  
"I heard him."    
  
"Maybe it won't be so hard then."  
  
"What won't be hard, Sam – lying?  Seemed to come easy to you around Kearney.  I appealed to his baser instincts and it deceived him well enough.  But you appealed to his better side to trick him into trusting us.  Who's worse, me or you?"  
  
***  
  
October 19, 1872  
  
Neither Sam nor Dean wanted to stay around for the funeral services of Lucille Lorimer and her sons, Christopher and Michael. With the demon coach came an unsettling freedom, bought with their blood sacrifice.  It was time to go.  
  
With this new liberty to move and explore - and hunt, Sam reminded Dean twice - came a mood as black as the coach, beginning with the decision about who would ride the seat and steer the horses, and who would sit inside.  Neither the driver's seat nor the inside were comfortably suited to the dimensions of two full-grown men, and Dean, by virtue of claiming injured-person's prerogative, won the first fight.  
  
***  
  
"Cold out there?" Sam said teasingly.    
  
He wanted to drive, but he was relishing the discomfort Dean felt and trying to ignore the cramps in his own legs at the same time.  
  
"Doin' fine," Dean lied, ears fiery red with cold.  His fingers had seized up around the reins no matter how much he blew on them.   
  
Somewhere south of St. Louis, as night fell, they stopped to make a fire.  There were no towns here, no hotels and little money in their pockets to spend on shelter in any case.  Even the farmhouses seemed to have withdrawn for the night.    
  
Sam spread his long legs on either side of the meager flames Dean had conjured from damp twigs, ducking the heavy smoke that seemed to billow into his face no matter which way he leaned.    
  
"You keep that up, you'll be a snake charmer."   
  
"Shut up, Dean."    
  
"Look, I'm the one who had to sit out on that ice-cold torture shelf, listening to you all warm and toasty."    
  
"The coach isn't toasty.  It's about two degrees above the air outside."  
  
"Nice quality coach, for demons."    
  
"And it stinks in there.  We didn't get all the blood out."  
  
"That's you, Sam.  I washed it twice.  If it stinks, it's all you."  
  
Where he would have said something clever, he let a moment pass, then spoke up.  A small rip in Sam's composure had torn wide open just as Dean was making peace with his past.  
  
"Dean, what do you have against Dad?  He didn't leave you behind on purpose."  
  
"I- what? Sam, I don't.  I've been angry all my life, and it just doesn't fall away because you tell me he loved you.  That makes it worse."  
  
"Worse? That we had another … 15 and some years, me and him?"    
  
"Move your big legs. I built this fire and I should get to enjoy some of it," Dean groused, pushing Sam's leg back toward him, blind to the glare he got.  
  
"He lied to both of us," Sam continued.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's all?  He never went to look for you, never once told me I might have a brother, not _even_ in his will, his papers, nothing!"  
  
"Why are you all of a sudden upset at your own father for taking care of you?"   
  
"It's weak.  He always ran from suffering and never managed to escape it."    
  
"Doesn't make him a coward."  
  
"Isn't that what you think he is?" Sam snarled.  
  
"God you're in a shit mood."  
  
"Stuck in that box all day - you'll see tomorrow when I drive just how warm it is."  
  
"The hell I will!" Dean said, shoving Sam's leg aside again from where Sam had slowly inched it back, boot against Dean's knee.   
  
"Leave it!" Sam yelled, but Dean pushed harder, shoving Sam's leg toward the tiny fire, along with a mound of wet leaves they'd cleared to build it.    
  
The flames sank under the damp mass, casting odd shadows on the coach as Sam scrambled to his feet and Dean stood up too, ready for it.  
  
"You won't win this-" Dean said, but Sam's fist connected with his chest, knocking the wind out of his boast.   
  
He stumbled back, stepping on the barely-burning sticks, and Sam swung again.  
  
"Sonofa-" Dean yelled, finding his footing, trying to see Sam's face in the evening half-light, see where his long legs were.  
  
When the flames flared briefly, he saw his chance and used Sam's own move against him, a wide swing of his leg hard and low against Sam's own legs, to cut him down.  Dean had played that moment over and over in his mind since he first saw Sam do it to a knife-wielding saloonkeeper in Salina.     
  
Now instead of defending Dean, Sam was going down hard on his back on the remnants of the fire, smothering it entirely before he could roll off.  Dean caught Sam's movement and threw himself across his brother, pinning Sam to the ground.  Sam had all of the muscle but none of the well-to-do padding that still smoothed out Dean's arms and shoulders, belying his true strength.  Sam's arms were well matched to Dean's but not stronger.    
  
"What is wrong with you today?" Dean growled.  
  
Sam lay there panting, clouds of breath hanging between them in the last of the light.    
  
"Who do you think I am?" Sam asked.   
  
"What?"  
  
"Answer me."    
  
Sam struggled to get free but Dean, exhausted and worried, held him down.  
  
"You're a man from backwoods Tennessee with a stunning death wish."  
  
Silence, and a few sticks cracking under them.  Dean tried again.  
  
"You're a crazy hunter.  Not as crazy as Kearney, but getting there."  
  
Sam waited, his eyes locked on Dean's.  
  
"You're someone who's going to drive _me_ crazy with hunger.  Or unrequited lust."  
  
The expression remained on Sam's face – an expectant stare, jaws tight, lips apart just enough to roughen his breath as it passed.  
  
"You're my brother,"  Dean said.  _Too easy. Too simple._  
  
Sam just lay there, limbs taut, breathing slower now, eyes dark and cold.  The answers Dean had in him didn't seem to fit, didn't seem to work.    
  
"I – I really don't know who you are, Sam.  But if I can keep coming up with answers, I can hold onto whatever's here in my hands right now."  
  
Sam relaxed under him.   
  
"Did we sin, Sammy?  What did we ever do?"  Dean asked, defeated.  
  
Sam had no answer for that.  
  
***  
  
The rebuilt fire that they'd both contributed to burned bright and warm.  Sam slept on one side, Dean on the other, but Sam moved restlessly and turned away from the heat, waking stiff and cold, his head aching.  He went to the tree line not far from the campsite.  
  
Dean woke to voices. He sat up and listened, trying to focus his eyes.  Sam's voice he knew, soft and low, then he heard the word "Dad".  Sam was talking to no one, just talking.  He had his coat up around his ears and his hands buried deep in its pockets.    
  
"I'm sorry I didn't turn out the way you wanted me to, safe and happy and working a real job.  But I am happy, so one out of three…"  
  
Dean lay back, curious but knowing it was private.  When he heard his name, though, he listened with all his might.   
"- and he hunts as well as I do now, learned it faster than I did.  You should have told me about him, even if you thought he was dead.  It wasn't right to keep that from me."   
  
Sam paused for a moment, as if listening.  
  
"He's a better person than I am too; you'd be proud.  Sure, he's done some stuff, but… people like him.  He doesn't bring death to everyone around him, like I do.  We can find what took you, if we have to spend our lives chasing it."    
  
Dean groaned at that – too loud it turned out – and Sam whipped around.  
  
"Sorry," Dean apologized.  "You woke me up with your little monologue.  You paint a rosy picture of me, I have to say."    
  
"We have to find it, Dean."  
  
"You need to forgive him, Sam.   You know what it is to suffer, and so do I.  He took care of you, raised you right.   Give him credit."   
  
"You're avoiding it."  
  
"We weren't raised as brothers.  We can't become brothers, just like that."  
  
"What if we can't have what we wanted back in Salina because we're brothers?" Sam asked, desperate for a way around the truth.  
  
"Got nothing to do with that.  It's the demon that ruined it all," Dean said.  
  
"So we hunt it."  
  
"All our lives, Sam?"  
  
***  
  
 _October 20, 1872   Outside Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
Three days later, three long days of slow riding in a coach that seated two but only protected one at a time from the elements, they arrived at the edge of Memphis.  Dean was chilled through and only now beginning to thaw out, as he had rarely allowed Sam to take the reins.  Sam was stiff and sore from folding his large body into the coach to stay warm.    
  
"Where's Mellie's?" Dean asked.  
  
"By the river.  Turn here."  
  
Sam joined Dean up top on the seat before they started rolling again, his legs stretching out past the footboard.  
  
"You have to pull the brake if you're going to sit there."    
  
"I can do that much, Dean.  Still don't know why you won't let me drive more."   
  
"Because I like being out here, telling the damn horses what to do, that's why."  
  
"Trust me, Dean, I can drive a pair of horses."  
  
"What, I have to trust you now, because you're my brother?  You're lucky you met me now, not when you were a short little kid.  I'd have pushed you into the mud puddles."    
  
"You were that much of a jerk?"  
  
He slugged Sam's arm.  
  
"I see you still are," Sam muttered.   
  
"I'd push you off the seat right now, but your legs could probably reach the ground," Dean said.  
  
"I'd like to see you try," said Sam, pushing back hard.  
  
"Is that his house?" Dean asked, breaking the easy banter that Sam enjoyed more than he cared to admit.  It reminded him of when they first started working together in Salina. With some difficulty, Sam looked away from Dean.  
  
"Yeah, that's it," he said, taking in the weather-beaten structures, once proud but long since declined. "Looks worse than when I was here a year ago."  
  
***  
  
Dean steered the team along a muddy track toward a small outbuilding.  The main house was a simple whitewashed clapboard house built far too close to the river, likely on the only land Mellie could afford.    
  
Sam spotted the hunter sitting on the porch. He was motionless but well aware of their arrival, watching them come up the steps with eyes that closed and opened in slow motion.  The impression Dean had was of a lion that's too lazy to eat you right now, so you best keep on walking.  They stopped at the foot of the porch steps.  
  
"It's me, Mellie, Sam Winchester.  This is my brother."  
  
"Is he now."  It wasn't a question, more of a dawning realization.  
  
"You must be Mellie Constan," Dean said loudly in greeting, and Mellie eyed him from head to toe, then extended a hand.  His grip was firmer than Dean expected.  
  
"We just got in from St. Louis," Sam added.  
  
"I 'spect you had trouble with Kearney."  
  
Dean raised his brow, and then chuckling, asked, "How'd you know?"  
  
"Don't you worry, Mr. …" He paused for Dean's introduction.  
  
"This is Dean-" Sam began, but Mellie waved him down.  
  
"You let him answer.  He oughta know his own name."  
  
"I'm Dean."  
  
"Just Dean."  
  
"For now."  
  
"Tell you what.  You call me Malachi, both of you.  It's my real name.  Folks here like Mellie 'cause it's easier and not so holy-sounding."  
  
Sam and Dean nodded in unison.  
  
"Well then, Samuel Winchester, bring this man you've come calling with and step inside.  The eyes and ears of the world don't need to see or hear what hunters discuss."  
  
Dean looked around, but the area was deserted.  The nearest house was a mile or more back along the road, Memphis was still a good few miles ahead, and the Wolf River flowed steadily just a few yards from the back edge where the property dropped off a bluff down to the riverbank.  Overgrown, Dean thought, but deserted.  He looked at Sam, who shrugged, and followed Malachi inside.    
  
***  
  
Sam recounted how the Gresses had met their end, Nikolas sacrificed by his wife and Michaela shot dead by Dean.    
  
"You didn't tell me Michaela was so far gone," he concluded.    
  
"She'd been gone a long time.  I just didn’t think Nikolas should be alone with her, the June anniversary coming on and all," Malachi said, pouring a second cup of chicory for Sam and ignoring Dean's refusal to drink his first cup.  
  
"And this fine young man helped you out?"    
  
"Yes sir, I did.  I had no idea hunting was so much fun," Dean said sarcastically.  
  
"Hunting is never fun," Malachi said somberly.  
  
"No, sir."    
  
Dean shifted uncomfortably.  He reached for the chicory then put his hand back on his leg and sat silently.  
  
"Sam, how did you meet Dean?"  
  
"By accident.  I missed the stop in Lawrence and got off in Salina.  He was working there."  
  
"There are no accidents, Sam.  Has anything else unusual happened to you?  Anything the other hunters should know about?  Any changes to the world?"    
  
His voice was calm, but there was an insistent tone to it.  He was after valuable information, Dean could tell.  
    
Sam detailed the demons they'd encountered outside Belleville and Creve Coeur, then went further back to the deaths in the brothel in Salina that summer, carefully omitting Dean's role as the owner, and any mention of the Fire Demon.  
  
Dean, not comfortable with Malachi's close observation, stood and paced the room.  It was a small room, too small to have been made into both the parlor and the library, and not as well-heated as he'd expected.  The hearth was in another room, making the whole house smoky and stuffy but not any warmer.   On the shelves he found very little at all, and what was there was odd and eclectic.  Everything about the man and his home was just a little off.  Clearly not all hunters were as tidy as Kearney.    
  
"What's this?" he asked, picking up a metal ring with wax drippings on it.  
  
"That's a miner's lamp," said Sam, looking at the object in Dean's hand with a smile of recognition.  "Dad had one just like it."  
  
"Go on, Sam," Malachi said softly, keeping him focused. "Something about a demon in Salina.  That makes three in six months."  
  
Dean replaced the lamp, listening with one ear as Sam told the story in edited fashion.  On the next shelf was a collection of old books, very similar to Kearney's collection.   He scanned the titles – a Russian novel about brothers, the title worn partly away from age; The Origin of Demon Species stood next to that.    
  
"You believe in evolution?"  
  
"All things evolve, Dean."  Malachi paused briefly.  "Even God."  
  
Sam continued after the interruption, wishing Dean would sit down and stop poking around, but Malachi seemed unconcerned by his investigations.    
  
Dean touched a book called _Apocalypse_ and found it was a cover over another volume hidden inside: _The Shattered God_. He opened the cover carefully, but the writing was not English, or any language he knew.  He stared at the pages for some time, then put it back carefully inside its cover and replaced it on the shelf.  
  
"You're far less subtle than you should be, Dean," Malachi said quietly.    
  
"What was that, then, as long as we're talking about it?"  
  
"Dean!"  
  
"Sam, let him be what he is.  If I were angry, you'd both know it.  Dean, sit down here and tell me what you remember of the events in Belleville, and Creve Coeur, and Salina."  
  
Dean recounted what he thought Sam had left out, avoiding any mention of the fire demon, although his retelling of the events at the brothel was piecemeal at best, and his voice grew quieter at the end.  
  
When he was done, Malachi looked at them both intently.  It lasted far too long for Dean's comfort, and even Sam began to move his legs nervously.    
  
"You are also not nearly subtle enough when you lie, either of you," Malachi observed.  
  
"Dean, we came here for help.  Let's ask."   
  
"No, Sam."  Dean had no idea how an old hunter would view them, whichever secret Sam was about to reveal.  "Not that."  
  
"Then as much of 'that' as you think I can help with," said Malachi.  
  
"It's something we saw in Salina," Sam began.  "It was like… it was what killed my father."    
  
Malachi, his face worn with age and hard years in the fields, sat up, leaning forward into the lamplight.  They had his full attention.  
  
"Sam…" Dean pleaded, softly.  
  
Sam looked up at Dean and then continued on.  
  
"It wasn't a demon, exactly."  
  
"And what was it?"  
  
"It was inside the demon; it killed Catherine and then burned out the demon possessing her, and when there was nothing else…." Sam's voice faded at the effort it took to describe the indescribable.  The horror of that moment, the energy it had taken to say the Widow's prayer, and Dean's final offer of sacrifice all fought to find a way out of him.  His face was in his hands, struggling for composure.  
  
"It was fire.  Fire and hatred and it knew us.   Both of us," Dean finished quickly, his hand on Sam's shoulder.  The more Sam told their secrets, the more Dean needed to speak up too.  It felt good to say it to someone, no matter how Malachi responded, but his response was not what they expected.  
  
"You need to leave.  Find a way to blend in, don't hunt, don't go looking for demons.  Let me deal with this."    
  
"Deal with what?" Dean demanded.  
  
"You seem to have encountered more than your share of trouble since you met this young man," Malachi said to Sam.  "Is there anything else I should know?"  
  
They stared at Malachi, an older brother protecting a younger brother from judgment, a younger brother ashamed of what they'd done, and even more ashamed that he still clung to it, needed it.  
  
"Work on your lying.  You're terrible at it," Malachi said, "and you've got a lot to hide."  He stood and opened the front door.  "Now get out.  Go anywhere but Salina or Lawrence," he warned.  
  
At the door, he put his hand on Sam's chest, and on Dean's, a strange ritual of farewell, and Dean could see the scars the overseer's whip had left on the man's forearms.  He could feel some of his fear subsiding.  They were no longer afraid now that he'd touched them; it calmed them both.  
  
***  
  
The door closed behind them and there was a rustle of birds.  Dean looked up to the trees to find the birds, but they'd flown.  
  
"I can't sleep another night in that coach," Sam said. "He must know a place that'll put hunters up."   
  
He knocked quickly on the door, but there was no answer.    
  
"He really did want us to get lost, I guess," said Dean.  
  
Sam turned the handle and the door swung open.  
  
"Malachi?" he called, but got no response.  
  
Dean pushed past him, concerned.  
  
"Where the hell is he?"  
  
"Gone out the back, maybe?"  
  
"To the river?"  
  
"He has a boat, I think." Sam raised his voice as Dean moved into the back part of the house.  "He told me he loves going up to Wolf Island."     
"He's gone, Sam," Dean shouted from the back door. "You sure he's not a demon too?"   
  
"He's a hunter, has been for years, since he got his freedom.  He fought on the Union side."  
  
"Well he just vanished.  We could sure use that trick."  
  
***  
  
 _October 21, 1872    Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
Dean tore a bill from a wall on Front Street.  It promoted a singer named "Blind Abelia."  Dean squinted at the figure seated at a piano, a wide silk ribbon covering her eyes and another over her mouth, both trailing behind her as if lifted by a breeze.  He turned the paper over and wrote deliberately.  
  
Sam looked over at the symbols.  A series of small circles and angled lines connecting them was all he saw.    
  
"It looks mathematical," he ventured.    
  
"It's a language," Dean replied with certainty.  
  
"How can you know that?"  
  
"Because it was written like this, page after page, and it had a title – _The Shattered God_.  Hell if I know what it means, I just wanted it out of my head," Dean said, folding the paper inside his journal.  
  
***  
  
The day quickly went downhill, starting with a group of boys pelting the coach with pebbles as Dean steered it down the street.  Dean pulled the horses up short and handed the reins to Sam, who watched as Dean climbed down and headed for the youngsters.  They scattered, one running to his parents.  The father was a good deal wider than Dean, but not much older.  Dean said something to him and the man took a swing.  Sam wrapped the reins around the post and jumped down.    
  
They found themselves on the wrong end of the one man who could get the local military to answer his shouts, and left town as quickly as they'd entered.  Near Malachi's place, they stopped to reconnoiter.  
  
"Where are we going, Dean?  And why the hell can't you charm people like you used to?  It wasn't just St. Louis."    
  
"Me?  I'm supposed to be charming them?  You're the sneaky one they always trust."  
  
"I’m starving," Sam admitted finally, much to Dean's relief, as he was beginning to feel like Sam had given up food.  
  
"There was a harvest festival back there, some kind of fair.  It's on the poster with the blind girl," Dean said, pulling it from his notebook and reading. "Dancing, singing, food for all who come in costume."  
  
"Costumes?"   
  
"Food, Sam.  I smelled pie.  One more week of seminary cooking and I'd have turned demon myself.  I think I can remember how to come up with a couple of suits if you can lift the tickets off an unsuspecting party."    
  
"The way our luck's been going?"  Sam shook his head.  
  
"We get the food, we leave town before the fun is over."  
  
***  
  
That night, when they returned to the coach covered in confetti, they'd had more food than in the past two weeks, and more liquor than any time since Salina.  The coach was cold, but it warmed quickly as they squeezed into the seat.  The close quarters had tested them both on the journey south, but they had managed not to let anything surface.    
  
"Why did you run a brothel, Dean?" Sam asked, his tongue loosened by the whiskey.  
  
"What?"  Dean failed to see sense in the question.  "Why not?"   
  
"It's pretty immoral," Sam chuckled.  
  
"Morals are for those who need them."  
  
"Which ones don't you need?" Sam asked.  
  
"Go to sleep, Sam."  
  
"Which ones let that kiss get past, hmm?"  
  
Dean didn't answer.  He was fighting to control his breath and appear asleep, but his mind raced through the days since Salina, stopping at every point where he'd touched Sam, or smelled him, or been within the long sweep of Sam's arms.  It made him angry, most of all at the Fire Demon, for telling them things they were better ignorant of, and least angry of all at Sam.  He pressed his leg against Sam's and left Sam behind, awake in the coach, as he slipped into sleep.  Sam could see the outline of Dean's leg in the starlight, and feel its warmth against him.  
  
Dean dreamed of the cellar, the fire he had always feared, the fire that came to him and consumed his world and left him the curse of a brother in place of a man he'd loved.  He woke in the night to a world rustling with the noises of small animals.  The darker horse shook its head and made its bridle jangle.  Dean started in panic, jerking around in the seat and twisting his knee – he was alone in the coach.  
  
He looked out the windows on both sides but saw nothing in the near total darkness.  He opened the door and whispered "Sam!"  
  
He heard a grunt from behind the coach, a stifled sound that he recognized instantly.  He blushed, and then grinned.  Both the excitement and the grin faded quickly – he was no less interested in Sam than he had been in the summer, brother or not.  Sam returned a few minutes later, his pants rebuttoned, his hands dry.    
  
Dean blocked the coach door and refused to move.  His vest was already in the coach, and he lifted his shirt off over his head despite the chilly night.  Sam was barely visible, even as close as he was, but Dean could sense his movements – confused, sleepy, but perfectly clear about what lay ahead of him.  Sam's hands, which touched Dean's chest after a long minute of silence between them, were cold.  They found what they sought.   
  
A while later, Sam, then Dean, climbed back into the coach and slept well into the next morning.    
  
***  
   
 _October 25, 1872   The Road to Kansas City_  
  
Dean was tired of roaming, scavenging the country, fearing he'd lose Sam to the hunting life even when he couldn't have him any other way. The next day, with no more free festival food, no patience for endless nights in the coach, and no money, Dean suggested something he thought he'd never do with Sam.  
  
"We should go back to Kansas City.  I know the town.  We'd have a place to stay, food.  Lots of easy marks; we can build up some money."  He paused.  "You can meet Sal."    
  
Sam was quiet.  
  
"We'll be safe there.  Sal's always taken care of me."  
  
"They're probably still looking for us."    
  
"Malachi said the demons won't come looking if we lay low."  
  
"He only _hoped_ that, Dean. We still don't know why they came in the first place, or why they want us dead."  
  
"We can be there in three days -  a week if we don't run the horses ragged.  I grew up there, Sam.  It's home.  And I'm tired."  
  
Dean had been pushing aside a feeling that he wasn't cut out for this, that Kearney and Malachi both found him a poor hunter, and he feared that Sam would realize it too, sooner or later.  Sam's unfailing kindness to others only reinforced Dean's belief in his own insincerity.  His lies about Sal settled in the pit of his stomach and rolled around for the rest of the trip.   
  
Sam, for his part, saw only the deaths that had followed him all his life, an unbroken string from his mother to his father, to the victims in Salina and Lawrence, to Missouri and Illinois.  It weighed on him more than he let on - he knew he wasn't saving people as he'd been taught to, and the trail of deaths haunted him.  If they stayed together too long, Dean would be lost too.    
  
The week gave Sam time to add the night by the coach door to his regrets.  He dwelled on it to the point that Dean kicked him for not answering a direct question about which road to take.  The coach was stopped at the crossroads, and Dean waited for some sign from Sam, who had been through this way once before, so he said.    
  
"North road now, then northwest from Springfield," was all Sam said after a long look both ways.  
  
Dean took the north road, hating the silence and the black mood that seeped up from the coach.  Nightmares plagued them both as they got closer to Kansas City.  The coach seemed hungry, out for blood – Sam had cut himself on the doorframe and the coach ran over Dean's foot when the horses spooked.  The long ride had lamed one horse already, and the other was showing sores under her harness, which Dean readjusted regularly without knowing exactly how to make it fit best.    
  
When they hit Kansas City, the coach got the blood it desired.


	7. Legacy

_October 30, 1872    Kansas City, Missouri_  
  
The coach lumbered up the slope toward the city, the left horse nearly overcome by the strain.  At the top, Dean let the team rest while Sam studied the winter clouds, dark in the west, weighing heavy overhead. Low scudding ones moved across the wind, heading south.    
  
"What's the plan now, Dean? Meet Sal?"  Sam asked, climbing down to stretch his legs.  
  
He knew well enough what the plan was, but Dean shifted his story a little each time he asked, making Sam more curious about Sally Goodheart now than he had ever been.    
  
"Rest is the plan, Sam.”   
  
"And when we get to town?"  
  
"Rest some more,” Dean said slowly. "Need the time off."  
  
Sam waited, watching him.  
  
“Find a place to stay," Dean added, softening his tone.  
  
"I thought we were going to stay with Sal."   
  
"Let me go see her first; I don’t want to impose."  
  
“Dean, she runs a brothel.  She has rooms.”  
  
"Get back on," Dean snapped, sounding angry again.  That same anger had surfaced more than a few times in the last days of their trip north, and Sam let it be.    
  
Dean jerked on the reins and the weary horses pulled the coach forward into Kansas City.  
  
***   
A rough-looking man named Linder watched the black coach roll past him on Main Street, and when it was gone, he burst out with, "Sonofabitch!  I ain't seen him in… in a good five years now!"  
  
The well-dressed man who employed him was watching the shoeshine boy work, and he wasn't satisfied with the shine.    
  
“Seen who?” he asked.  
  
"That scum that Sal used to send out to do her dirty work.  Dean Campbell."  
  
"Well, Mr. Campbell lost his club in Salina.  Only a matter of time before he came crawling back to her.  Maybe she needs help with the whores,” the man laughed.   
  
"Maybe he wants to lay back himself!" Linder jeered and laughed at his own joke.  "Just rode in on top of some fancy black wagon, lettered in silver and all, like a business man.  And some giant with him – six foot and more if he's an inch."  
  
The shoeshine boy finished his task and the large man lowered himself carefully to the boards.    
  
"No sense letting her get her best weapon back.  Get rid of them both."  
  
"Yes sir, boss!"  
  
"Without making a scene."  
  
Linder scuttled off around the corner, spotting the carriage a few hundred feet ahead at the front of the hotel.  The off and on rain had kept the street relatively empty.  Dean and the man with him appeared to be arguing.  
  
"Too easy this is," he said as he aimed.  
  
***  
  
A gunshot rang out and the bullet came close enough to Dean's head that he could feel his hair stir.   
  
"Roll when you hit the ground, Sam!" said Dean and shoved Sam off the coach seat with both hands.  
  
"Dean!"  
  
Sam hit and rolled well, Dean thought, while he dropped down to the footstep and peered back through the coach's windows.  There was too much distortion and rain on the glass to see the shooter clearly.  He dropped to the ground and looked out from under the coach.  Sam was on his knees in the road, muddy, surprised and angry, but he had his gun drawn.  
  
"Sam, get inside!"  Dean yelled, waving him off toward the hotel.  
  
"Dean, I can…"  
  
"This is _my_ fight, Sam.  Only one guy I know is that good of a bad shot.  Now get lost."  
  
Sam retreated only as far as the columns on the hotel's façade, which he used as cover while he looked back for the shooter.  Dean had already spotted him.  
  
"Linder!" Dean shouted.  "You cut the strings yet?"  
  
It was something that Linder wouldn't let pass, Dean knew that – he'd gotten out of the gang, but Linder never had, and never would.  
  
"He wants you gone, Campbell."  
  
"Dean, I've got him!" Sam said, his gun leveled at a collection of barrels in front of the dry goods store on the opposite corner.  
  
Dean swung around as a second shot hit the coach spring and ricocheted up into the window of the coach, sending shards of glass across the interior.    
  
"Sonofa-  Linder!  Tell whoever runs your gang now that I am back.  And you'll get a bill for repairing that window!"  
  
Sam's heart sank at Dean's "I'm back".  It sounded permanent.  He took the shot – it hit Linder square in the shoulder, spun him around and dropped him out of sight behind the barrels.   
  
"Sam!  Don't hurt him!"    
  
"What?  Dean he tried to –"  
  
"Sam, I know what I'm doing, okay?  This is _my_ town."  
  
Sam was angry and confused, and looked it, but Dean was up from under the coach, grabbing their gear out of the back.  He slit his arm on a piece of glass but ignored the blood and the pain to push Sam out of sight and out of harm's way, right into the heart of the Washingtonian Hotel.   
  
"Rest here, Sam.  Stay low.  Get us a couple of rooms and I'll be back in no time."  
  
Dean stormed out, leaving a line of tiny blood spots on the floor behind him.  Sam was near the registration counter in the lobby, a surprisingly grand place considering where he'd been recently.  It looked out of their price range, and Sam certainly appeared nothing like a proper guest.  Two men in the sitting area stared at Dean as he left, but ignored Sam.  
  
"Sir?" asked the man at the reception desk nervously.  
  
"Um, yeah," Sam mumbled, "two rooms."    
  
"We have only one free at the moment, but considering that it's for Mr. Campbell, we could discount the price by a small amount."  
  
Dean stormed back in through the main doors to finish his thought.  
  
"And don't let Gus tell you about a ten percent discount.  He gives me half off," he barked, eyeing the desk clerk fiercely before turning and heading right back out.  
  
"I of course meant fifty percent, Mr.-" He waited for Sam to reply, his hand shaking visibly as he held the pen out over the guestbook.  
  
"One room will be fine," Sam muttered.  "We won't be staying long."  
  
***  
  
At the door to Sal's place, Dean couldn't take another step.  His fears stopped his legs and his breath;  his last shred of good judgment stayed his hand from knocking.  The door opened not a moment later and out backed a well-dressed gentleman with a small bag, repeating his instructions to the girl inside until he bumped into Dean on the top step.  He turned in mindless apology and instead took a long, disbelieving look.  
  
"Mr. Campbell," he said softly, shock in his voice.    
  
"Doc," Dean replied. "Keeping the girls clean, I hope."  
  
"No, I was,… Yes.  Yes, quite.  They're good."  
  
The doctor hurried past Dean, paused to look back once, and put his hat on.  Dean turned to the sweet young thing holding the door and pushed it open, despite her protests.   
  
"You're new here," he stated.    
  
"Seven months.  Nearly."  
  
"Tell Sal I'm here.  My name's Dean."  
  
"Jack!" she yelled over her shoulder and a large bouncer appeared, to her rescue she hoped.    
  
"Mr. Campbell! Ho HO!"   
  
He clapped his arms around Dean, nearly crushing him while the girl stood watching in amazement.    
  
"You go tell Sal," Dean wheezed out at her.  
  
She nodded, embarrassed, and took the stairs two at a time.  
  
"She's not in the ballroom?  At this hour on a Friday?" Dean asked when Jack had stopped squeezing him.  
  
"She's probably sleeping.  Not as interested in the business these days, if you ask me.  She lets some of the other girls run the floor and the special guests are all she handles now."  
  
"Then take me up.  I'm a special guest," Dean said.  His anxiety was easing slowly, replaced by a shapeless guilt that now had Sam's face attached.  There were things to clear up before Sal and Sam could meet each other.  
  
***  
  
Sal was preparing for a customer, her skin as pale as he'd ever seen it, cheeks powdered and rouged, and her hair in a braid that reminded him uncomfortably of Molly, Salina, and better days.  She unwound the braid and ran her fingers through her hair, now bearing a gentle wave.  She pulled it up in the style of the beautiful ladies her guests wished they had married.  
  
When she saw that it wasn't just Jack, but a man with him, she brightened, and a smile spread across her face.  She turned and saw Dean looking at her with the face she knew from his childhood; it said "take me in" and it meant he was still hers.  Rather than shock, Dean saw only her façade of calmness and a sincere pleasure radiating through.  
  
"Leave, Jack. Let Mr. Campbell and I talk privately.  Come get me five minutes before Senator Bedford arrives."  
  
"Senators now? You've moved up," Dean said.  
  
"You never got those awful leeches in Salina, did you?"    
  
Dean recognized the snipe for what it was, but that only seemed to make it cut in more easily; things hadn't changed after all.  
  
"Sal, I'm here to ask you for- " He stopped, unable to ask.  
  
"You need my help, I'm sure, just as I need yours, Mr. C.," she said, using the affectionate name she had never given up and that Dean had never asked her to change.  "Give me an embrace with your strong arms – the Senator is rather a weakling."  
  
He hugged her, noticing the thinness in her back.   
  
"Now have you come to beg me to give you money to rebuild your foolish dreams in Salina?  No, I think maybe you need me to keep the lawmen from finding you.  They are looking, you know.  They came to me twice already, but you'd vanished, you see, and I could tell them nothing but how you'd abandoned me and probably fled south for New Orleans-"  
  
"Sal, cut it out."  
  
She watched him closely, moving back in the large, plush chair to lean casually.    
  
"What's that I smell on you?  The lust, I mean.  Did you really come back here just to ask me to find you a man?"  
  
"No, Sal. I don't need any men."  
  
"Because I can.  I've got two working here now.  Seems our reputation was carried east as well as west; we get more requests than you'd imagine.  
  
"Sal, can I stay here?" he interrupted finally.   
  
"Of course you can."  She said it as an afterthought, her mind on something far more urgent.  "Have you come alone?"  
  
"No, I have a-  He's my- " Dean stammered as words again failed him.  
  
"Not that one from before.  Sam, was it?" she asked, feigning ignorance under disdain.  
  
"Yes. Sam. Samuel.  We need a place to stay until I can get some cash, get back on my feet."  
  
"You will be my guests at dinner tomorrow.  I can't put the Senator off, you understand, and I certainly don't want to come to dinner having just-"    
  
"We'll be here tomorrow."  
  
"If you need anything,….”  
  
"Cash?  Or a good tip on who I can hit up for some."  
  
"Jennison's group will gun you down if they find you."  
  
"They already tried," Dean said coolly as he turned to go.  
  
"There's a new man in town - Lennox.  Get him to leave and Jennison's gang will leave us alone."  
  
"I'm not working for you anymore, Sal.  I don't take orders, and I don't …. I just don't."  He turned to go.  
  
"I'm so glad you're back."  It was a silver hook meant for his heart. "You always come back, again and again.  You always come home… Bring Sammy to dinner so I can meet him, proper."   
  
Dean pulled the door shut on her final words.  His wounds had started to reopen as soon as her tongue first lashed out.  His face was drawn and frowning.  He stopped and put his hand on the wall. A mask slid over his face, unhurt now, even optimistic, but it was gone again before he got back to the hotel.  
  
***  
  
"Sam, first of all, calm down," Dean said, keeping clear of Sam's reach.  
  
"We're greeted with gunfire, you shove me off the coach-  
  
"I'm pretty sure it was meant for me, not-"  
  
" –You shoved me out on my _ass_ , Dean!  And then you say not to fire back, shove me again into a hotel where the guy gives us the _honeymoon suite_ -"  
  
"Which is very nice, isn't it?  Luxurious."  
  
" –and then you tell me to sit, stay, like some little puppy while you run off to see the madam of the whorehouse you were raised in."  
  
"We're having dinner with her tomorrow," Dean said quickly, hoping to slip it in like a regular part of their social calendar.  
  
Sam was silent, furious beyond any ability to speak.  He ran his hands through his hair a few times until it stood out wildly.  
  
"Sam, let me tell you about her.  You need to know a few things."  
  
That got Sam's attention and he stopped tormenting his hair.  
  
"She raised me.  She took me in and made sure I had a place to stay.  My relatives left me here in the city alone.  Not that I wasn't hell-bent on getting away from them, but they abandoned me.  Dad's in-laws did that.    
  
Sam's frown grew, but Dean continued.   
  
"I learned how to survive from her, how to run a good house, how to make money, how to con people.  All of which has been very useful to me, and to you."  
  
"So what do I have to fear from her, then?"  
  
"She could have saved me from a stint in prison, but she didn’t – kept her mouth shut to save herself and let me rot.  She used me to do her dirty work for years after I got out.  I got mixed up in some… questionable activities with her."  
  
"You didn't-!"  Sam was transfixed.  "You said you didn't work for her."  
  
"NO, not that, never!  But I did steal, and strong-arm and … and half the time I didn't know right from wrong, because it was always good in her eyes.  I left here soon as I got the chance.  She’s never forgiven me for that."  
  
"And you came back, even after Salina?  Even now?"    
  
"Well, now it's out of necessity." Dean reddened slightly, his eyes wide.  "We won't be here long, maybe a couple of months."  
  
"Months? Months of what?"  
  
"Shut some new guy down and she's better off, and the guy that shot at us will leave us alone too."  
  
"Oh, well then, that's just great.  We'll abandon our hunt and our parents to see if you can rough up a few thugs, run a con or two."  
  
"Sam, look, come to dinner.  Meet her. And keep your back to the wall.”  
  
"Does she know who I am?"  
  
"That wouldn't be good."    
  
Dean's face had an expression that Sam hadn't seen for a while – bravado on top of panic on top of a look he knew was shame.  
  
"So I'm not your brother," Sam wondered.  
  
"I never had one, as far as she knows."  
  
"Or anything else, then," he said, keeping his voice as free of pain and judgment as he could.    
  
Sam couldn't say the word himself, and a momentary sympathy for Dean came over him, but he saw the mask Dean was building and refining.  He recognized it.  It was Salina all over again, like they'd never been anything but acquaintances.  
  
"She knows how I felt about you, back then," Dean admitted, surprising Sam.  "But let's not get into it now.  She'll twist it somehow."    
  
"You're afraid of her," Sam realized.    
  
"I'm not."    
  
The mask locked in, the wall was up, and Sam was outside again. _A year of finding out who Dean really is – gone in a day._  
  
***  
  
 _October 31, 1872_  
  
"My goodness, but you are a fine young man!" Sal said, greeting them from the staircase in a flowing sapphire gown and more jewels than Sam had ever seen.  She was thin, and the dress moved oddly on her, countering her grace and elegance with bunches and sags. She kept a handkerchief in her right hand at all times, claiming she'd caught a cold from the Senator.  
  
"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Goodheart," Sam said graciously.  
  
"Miss! Aren't you the devil in disguise, Mr. Winchester.  I'm no maiden and may never have been.  Come in and tell me what you think you know about Mr. Campbell."    
  
She swept Sam away from Dean, who had been tensely watching the exchange, not sure whose impressions he was more concerned about.  
  
Sal paid Dean scant attention – Sam was her focus that evening and she pulled him closer several times so that he was practically arm in arm with her.  She told him stories of Dean's younger years, as if she were a proud mother – but they always highlighted a failure.  Between her stories, she interspersed comments on Sam's youth, inexperience, and even his unsuitability for Dean, each cleverly disguised as a compliment to Sam.    
  
Sam, for his part, was more than a match and already deep in what his father had called his "vinegar mood".  He smiled broadly in a way that she responded to but that Dean knew was entirely fake.  He turned the conversation back on her, delved into her daily life, her pride in the Wyandotte, her brothel, how much it meant to her – and before she realized it, he'd asked her how her family took the news of her running such a place.  Dean held his breath, but Sam merely stared at her.  
  
"Mr. Winchester, I think of all the things we've discussed here tonight, there are some topics which you really mustn't ask a woman, even a woman in my line of business.  You may find yourself uncovering things that just aren't ready…" and here she turned a fixed smile on Dean, "for the light of day."  
  
"Forgive me, please, Sal, I was carried away by the moment.  Dean's spoken so much of you that I felt like I'd been invited to meet his grandmother and share his childhood memories."  
  
Sal drew her hand away from Sam, dabbed her nose gently and folded the spots away quickly; Sam noticed them but said nothing.  She conversed with Dean for the brief remainder of the evening, telling him exactly who Lennox was, how he'd made aggressive moves toward her interests in the Wyandotte and other financial stakes, and all the while Sam simply watched as Dean took orders.    
  
Sam was scowling at this when Sal turned back to him finally, and her mouth curled up on the side facing him.    
  
"You'll move in tomorrow, Mr. Winchester," she said, her eyes on his. "I've picked out wonderful rooms for each of you – you, Sam, will have our very best.  Dean, I'm sure, will prefer his usual."  
  
***  
 _November 1872   At The Wyandotte_ , _Kansas City_  
  
Dean didn't bother arguing with Sam about what he was doing or how long it would take.  He just said Sam didn't need to get involved, and Sam's protests went unheeded.  Dean started off by sending a man to Jennison to ask for a meeting, proposing to shut down the new boys in town and restore the status quo.    
  
Sam chafed at living in the brothel – guests were overstaying their limits and the quality of the clientele had declined too, now that Sal devoted herself to privately entertaining the elite.    
  
After almost two weeks of cajoling, small-time harassment, and one fistfight, Dean realized he couldn't shut down Lennox without taking drastic steps, something neither Jennison's group nor Sal had been willing to do. Still, they pushed hard for him to try, and Sam tried to hold some sort of line. He didn't do it as calmly as he would have liked.   
  
***  
  
"Dean, I'm going out.  There's a library full of books waiting to be checked."  
  
"I'm going out later.  Meet me for lunch," Dean said, turning back to discuss being a lady with one of the new girls.  It made him uncomfortable, but Sal retired early and slept late – _no way to run a brothel_ , he'd heard her say on a weekly basis growing up.  
  
Sam left without making plans and spent the day in the city, visiting a church.  While the minister explained the  paintings behind the altar, Sam slipped the new flask he'd bought behind his back and into the font to fill it with holy water.   
  
Returning home that afternoon, he rounded the corner of Wyandotte and 7th and was nearly run over by a riderless horse.  Just down the block, a tumbling fistfight had attracted a crowd, which he joined.  When the fighters paused to breathe, his heart sank.  
  
"Dean?!"  
  
"Hey Sam," Dean replied, sounding pleased to see him.    
  
Another large man who'd struggled to his feet behind Dean came running forward to join his friend in pummeling Dean.  Sam slid his pack from his shoulder and lifted a short street kid atop it.    
  
"Stay there," he said firmly, then turned and entered the fight swinging.  He clobbered the big guy with his roundhouse kick, but to no effect.  He dodged a large fist and tried a few hits to the kidneys, bringing the man to his knees in agony.  A second kick finished him for that day, and drew loud cheers of encouragement from the crowd.  
  
"Sam? You free now?" Dean called, from where he was being repeatedly punched.  Sam brought both fists down on the man's neck, and Dean knocked him out as he staggered back, stunned.  
  
"What the hell are you doing, Dean?" Sam asked between breaths. "Is this how you run the business?"  
  
"My business is to get Lennox and his gang to leave town.  So far, neither of us is using shotguns."  Dean stood with his hands on his knees for a moment waiting for either man to move and when they didn't, he continued, "Thought we were having lunch."  
  
Sam sighed.  
  
"What?"  Dean asked, dusting himself off and patting Sam down as well.  
  
"When and where?"  Sam replied.  
  
"Lunchtime, because I said 'lunch'.  My room."  
  
"I told you I was going out."  
  
"Let's get dinner then.  Tell me what astonishing things you found in today's library visits."    
  
"You managed to be nice there for a second.  How do you do that?"  
  
"Anything about fire demons?  No?"  
  
"No, I was at the medical library."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I'm concerned."  
  
"Strong as an ox, Sammy," Dean said, smacking his own chest twice as proof.  
  
***  
  
November was the social season in Kansas City, and Sal had regular engagements, both with clients and with friends and members of society she hoped to insinuate herself with, although twenty years in business hadn't won her as much respect as her reputation for cruelty had.  
  
She invited Sam to each of her elaborate dinners, seating him by rival gang members or beautiful women, a bit further away from her at each event as their mutual dislike grew.  Dean she held onto more often, letting him seat her, lift her to dance with, pour her drinks – by her side till the evening ended.    
  
One typical Saturday afternoon Sal placed Sam next to Helena, a young woman who insisted on describing her viewpoints on theosophy and "the god-head in all souls".  Sam was at first as bored and irritated as he always was at these events, and focused on Dean near the head of the table.  
  
"This self-expressing divine spark is present in all things, uniting and animating them, you see!"   
  
"Mmm. Animating?" he mumbled.  
  
"Even in demons, especially the demons of fire.  All of them are part of God."  
  
"Did you say- could you tell me a bit more about the demons?" Sam asked with keen interest.  
  
"It's the fundamental oneness of all things, you see?" she continued, and Sam nodded as she delved into reincarnation, her second favorite topic.    
  
Dean watched Sam with her, seeing the same sincerity that Sam directed at him all the time.  _Not even in your league, am I, Sam?_      
  
"Does this theory say more about fire demons?" Sam finally asked Helena eagerly when she stopped talking.  
  
"Gracious, Mr. Winchester, do stop pestering Helena with such horrid questions," Sal said, turning from her guest, Dr. Bratislav.  
  
"Oh, Miss Goodheart, I don't mind a bit.  It's a welcome change from father's endless sermons from the Bible…"  
  
"Now perhaps Samuel can give us a topic of discussion more suitable to a brothel."  
  
She sat waiting, putting him on the spot, and Dean's attempt at a rescue was cut off by Helena's eager leap into the conversation.  
  
"My father was writing up something for tomorrow's sermon about Cain and Abel, and I just had to get out of the house.  Can you imagine sitting there with mother plaiting my hair again and father trying out the sermon on us?  No one cares about Old Testament tales.  It isn't _modern_."    
  
Sal looked for a moment like she was going to silence a prattling child, but closed her mouth and fanned herself in the warm room as her face went pale.  She let her hands rest on the tablecloth, her liqueur untouched.    
  
"What's the point of his sermon?" asked Brody, one of Sal's oldest friends and a regular visitor.  "One killed the other – it's hardly a lesson when we know killin's wrong."   
  
Sam and Dean were staring at each other now, wondering how odd the night would become.  
  
Jermaine, Sal's head girl when her sister wasn't running the main rooms on the first floor, ventured a chuckle.  "Can you imagine being a twin and hearing that story?  When don’t siblings think about killing each other?  I always thought that lesson taught obedience to God…?"  She let the question hang.  
  
"It's about who's most favored by God," Dean offered, recalling his talks with the prison chaplain.  
  
"No, Dean, that's not –"  Sam began.  
  
"I think it's about love," Helena replied bluntly, interrupting Sam. "You see, in Zoroastrianism, there were these brothers too, one who chose darkness, or at least that's what he said.  I think the stories are the same – the world telling us we have to find a way to love what we think we can't."  
  
Sam was watching her intently; Dean half expected Helena to start talking about demons she knew personally.  Sal made a note to fire Helena when her strength returned.  She called for an end to the evening not long after that.  
  
***  
  
As he was leaving, Brody talked in the hall with Dean and Sam about his plan to make life hard for Lennox via good old-fashioned bank extortion.  Sam hadn't heard of this before.  
  
"We'll talk later, Brody," Dean said hurriedly.  
  
"It's a damn kinder plan than yours, Dean, and less likely to land either of us in prison. You ever tell your friend here what you went in for?"  he laughed, looking at Sam.  
  
"You get home safe.  Sleep it off," Dean said, showing him out.  He turned to see Sam's eyebrows arched up like a worried puppy.  "Sam, yes, I have dark spots in my life; don't keep trying to see them."  
   
He led Sam up the stairs and they made their way through convoluted hallways to the room Sal had assigned Sam the day he arrived.    
  
"You can't just throw away what you have to make Sal happy!  That isn't you."  
  
Dean ignored him.  
  
"We've already got lawmen after us, and this will just put them on the doorstep.  We’ve got monsters and demons out there to deal with."  
  
"And what hunters do is the letter of the law?" Dean retorted. "I'm the one who's taking the chances for us.  And why were you talking to Helena about fire demons?"  Dean asked, stopping at the door to Sam's room, refusing to cross into the place he'd been in many times in his life, always with the men Sal provided.  
  
"She brought it up.  I was just trying to get a little information, but all she knows is what she read in her books. There's a hunter you and I need to meet in the city tomorrow," Sam added, hoping to keep Dean there a bit longer. "I told him we'd be at the Three Oaks tavern around noon."  
  
"Why do you keep saying 'we'?  I have plans of my own.  Plans that can bring us money."  
  
"Because you're my… because we're brothers.  You're giving in to her too easily," Sam repeated.  
  
"And how long do you want to be here, Sam?"  
  
Sam didn't get a chance to answer because two of the girls found them.  
  
"Mr. Dean, could you help us with the dance hall tomorrow?  Sal's going to St. Louis for two weeks.  She said you'd enjoy hosting the guests."    They looked with interest at Sam, who was strictly off limits, a message they'd received loud and clear from Dean the week before, after Sal had forgotten to remind them.  
  
"She never said anything to me-" Dean mumbled, more to Sam than the girls.  
  
"She left in a carriage just now, for the train," said Patrice.  "Didn't want to worry you."  
  
***  
  
 _Second Sunday of Advent, December 1872_  
   
Dean's plan took longer than he thought, and Sam continued to have no role, nor was he given one. He spent his days in the main library or at the university, looking up anything he could find on demons.   
  
Sal returned in two weeks, looking slightly better, speaking only of 'taking a cure' in the hot springs, but Sam had charmed her true destination out of Patrice.  
  
Dinner was lavish and private, just the three of them.  
  
"Boys, I can't tell you how it lifts my spirits that you're here to make the long winter nights seem so short," Sal began, ignoring her absence entirely.  
  
"You're in a good mood," Dean observed.  
  
"She's got a lot to live for," Sam commented, and she looked at him briefly, before returning her attention to Dean.    
  
"You do!" said Dean, continuing the thought. "A great business, a good reputation with the best clients, we're thriving!  Lennox is going to break soon."    
  
"After so many years, you're still a success," Sam noted, ready for a fight.  
  
"Mr. Winchester, we've been through so much together, Mr. C and I," Sal countered.  "So much longer than you and he have known each other."  
  
"Sal," Dean started, but she squeezed his hand hard.  
  
"So when I say that I know him better than you, believe me."  
  
Sam made a final effort to be polite, but he couldn't watch her manipulate Dean.  
  
"He deserves to make his own choices, not carry out your commands.  You're not even family."  
  
"Sam!" was all Dean got out before Sam cut him off.  
  
"Sorry, Dean, it's the truth.  She's using you.  Just like she did before."  
  
"But that's only because I know him so much better than you, as I just said.  I know what keeps him coming back."    
  
Dean was pale now, but Sal was paler, and pressed her handkerchief to her face, skin translucent and bruised across her collarbone, purple-yellow splotches visible through the heavy powder she'd applied.  
  
And then Sam knew.  It came to him like pieces of a puzzle, all the words and images that had been running through his head fitting into one truth.  
  
"You're dying!" Sam said, more incredulous than sympathetic.    
  
Sal closed her eyes and opened them a few seconds later. Sam watched a false civility slide across her face.    
  
_You taught Dean that._  
  
She drove home the only weapon she had left, now that Sam had struck first.   
  
"Dean stays here."  
  
"What?!" Dean interjected, a step behind but finally registering what Sam was seeing in her.   
  
"He has his needs, and I provide for them."   
  
“Sal!”  Dean had caught up fast but was in no place to participate; he watched his own death unfold.  
   
"Every four months since he was, what, 17, hmm?  My best young men, nothing less.  It kept him near.  Even in Salina, he knew who his debts were owed to.”  She paused, and then concluded, “You won't take him."  
  
Dean had always known what she was doing to him – this was not news to him, but never _why_ it worked on him so effectively. Sam, to Sal's delight, was bleeding fast at this news, looking at Dean in a way he hadn't before, seeing a man he didn't like.  
  
No accusation, no defense, no excuse, no "Sam!" -  Nothing came from Dean but silence, and horror.  Sal kept her face impassive but left the room satisfied.  _No sense watching a dying man die, not when the funeral could run for weeks._  
  
When Dean finally spoke, it wasn't what Sam hoped to hear.    
  
"How long does she have?"  
  
"I don't know.  A month, a week," Sam mumbled.  
  
...  
  
"I couldn't tell you," Dean offered, finally.    
  
"I know.  But you should have."  It was weak and tired, not his own voice but a separate person giving his responses.  
  
"I need to… clear my head," said Dean.  He disappeared from the brothel for the rest of the night and most of the next day.  
  
Sam was left in a house he loathed, waiting for a man he couldn't understand.  And a man he hated – himself.  
  
***  
  
Sam worked at avoiding Sal all week, which wasn't hard – she nearly always stayed in her room, letting Dean run the brothel.  Dean didn't often go to her, but he and Sam didn't leave town, either.  They had nowhere else to go, as he tried to tell Sam more than once.  
  
"Does he still think you're worth sticking by?" Sal asked Dean a few days after the revelation.   
  
"You know, Sal, most people get nicer when they know they're gonna die."  
  
"Nice is for people who have everything else they need.  Never had time for nice.  But sweet, that I can do.  The day I found you with that pie you'd stolen, we were both sweet.  Do you remember that?"  
  
"You were supposed to teach me that stealing is wrong, not how to do it better."  
  
"You didn't come back to me for pies, you came for the chance to be free.  To stop hating whatever you think you are."  It was her oldest, most reliable way to keep him close.  
  
"I'll check on you later.  Got things to do," said Dean, heading for the door.  
  
"You'll have no one."    
  
"I'll have Sam."  
  
"You'll lose him!"  
  
"No-"  
  
"Because he won't want a big empty nothing, a vessel.  He's something."  
  
***  
  
Sam honestly hoped that Sal's illness could snap Dean out of the nightmare she held him in, even now.  It didn’t.  Nor did the holidays, Dean's least favorite time of year, Sam learned.  He was also unable to shake Dean's misguided faith that Sam was a saint who stayed by him despite all his failings.  
  
Dean finally closed himself off to everyone, certain it would help him survive the days ahead.  When the leukemia took Sal a couple of weeks later, Dean hoped it would all end then – the fights, the burden of his secrets, being caught between the people he thought mattered.  He didn't cry at her death, or after. _Not for her_.  
  
Then, like the expert she was, Sal gave the knife in Sam's heart one final twist.    
  
***  
  
 _January, 1873   At The Wyandotte, Kansas City, Missouri_  
  
"Dean, you can't.  You just … you _can't!_ "  
  
"Sam, she left it to _me_."  
  
"To keep you here.  All she ever wanted was to have you around her, doing her bidding."  
  
"But this solves our problems!"    
  
Sam looked at him in utter disbelief.  
  
"How, Dean?!"  
  
"We have a place to stay, money, Jennison's gang won't be after me now that I run the place."  
  
Sam stood looking at him.  His bags were packed, waiting up in his room. He laid it out, hoping some part would catch hold.  
  
"And Dad? The thing that killed him? The one we need to hunt down?"   
  
"And Mom, and us – nearly. Sam, I know that.  But we haven't seen it or anything like it in months."  
  
"Because we haven't been _looking_ , Dean."   
  
"I had nightmares about Mom all my life.  They got worse in Lawrence.   Now they've stopped.  I'm not sure we can help her, no matter what the fire demon said.  And it’s been gone six months, not a sign.  I'm even getting used to fire again."  
  
"We have to find out what it was – and if it was telling the truth about them.  It wasn't lying about _us_."  
  
"Sam, you're the hunter.  I can't live that way.  This is what I've done all my life.  I'll make you a deal."    
  
Sam stiffened at the changed expression on Dean's face, the businesslike tone of his voice.  
  
"You find it, I'll come help you kill it, wherever it is, whatever it takes."  
  
"Dean,…"  Sam whispered, watching his brother's face for any hope; he'd heard the goodbye, the finality.    
  
Dean hoped Sam would take the offer, and leave.  It was right for him to go; it made sense to Dean after his humiliation.  
  
"Sam, you were a hunter before and you can be one again, a great one.  I'm a brothel owner, and a damned good one at that.  I found my brother, and that's always going to be the greatest thing."  He paused to drive down his emotions.  "But you know this isn't going to ever work, ever.  The love isn’t the hardest part, and I can’t even do that right."   
  
"That's where you draw the line? At loving your brother?  Not at running a whorehouse or fighting with criminals to keep it open?"  
  
"So we go to Hell, find Mom and Dad, then what?  How would that ever work?  And if we did get them out, what's your plan?  Set them up a nice house and a flower garden and tell them, 'Oh, by the way, we kind of accidentally slept with each other before we knew we were brothers'?"  He paused and let the clock tick.  "How do I tell Mom that I love you?"  
  
He made it nearly to the end of that question before his voice was a husk, his eyes brimming.  
  
Sam could see it clearly in his mind: John looking at him in shock, wondering if this was just another torment of hell – one son become a hunter and the other a brothel owner, not only still alive but doing things with each other so awful that hell would open right up again for them.  
  
"How do you tell her you don't love _her_?" Sam asked.  
  
"I don't, Sam -  I don’t tell her because she's dead.  Dad's dead.  I hated him for so long and now I get it.  _I_ was wrong.  _I_ was wrong to run away, wrong to let Sal use me, wrong to let myself want you.  I love you, but there's nothing left beyond that."  
  
"I can't stay."  It was resigned, matter of fact, the way Sam said it.  
   
"I know.  I get it."    
  
***   
  
In the large room that the Wyandotte used for deliveries, Dean handed Sam his second pack and clasped his hand in a firm handshake.    
  
"Good luck,” Sam said.  
  
"You know where I'll be," Dean replied, stepping on Sam's words.  He didn't know where Sam was headed and couldn't even ask.  
  
The door closed behind Sam with a loud, echoing click.  It took a few minutes for Dean to move again.  
  
The room was bare and needed restocking. The music from upstairs was too loud.  
  
"Sal, you let this place slide."


	8. Apparitions

_March 7, 1873   East of Sevierville, Tennessee_  
  
Ahead of Sam in the hills of eastern Tennessee was the home of two of his dearest protectors and mentors, Thom Auxier and his wife Sarah. When he was orphaned, Sam had no answers to explain what was happening around him.  Without father or friend to defend him, he couldn't defend himself well enough to the Widow's hunter allies who blamed him for her death.  Seizing him shortly after he left her cabin, they accused him of his father's murder as well. He held onto that accusation like a live-preserver and drew some small strength from the insult.  _I did not kill my father!_ helped to clear his head.   
  
While the hunters decided Sam's fate on that winter evening, they left him tied to a tree, where he might have died but for Thom, on his way to see the Widow after a particularly horrific nightmare had raised an alarm in him.  He insisted on returning to John's cabin to see for himself. John's remains, no more than a ragged pile of bone-white ashes, paralyzed Sam at the entrance to the room. Thom trusted him fully from that moment on. Hoping to get some idea of what was at work, Tom knelt by John's ashes and put his hand over them but there was nothing of John left in them.  He argued fiercely for Sam's innocence and ultimately had to promise to take Sam away with him. Widow Aulty's circle remained unconvinced that Sam was entirely innocent; the signs of hellfire and the devil were all too clear in both deaths and Sam was the common thread.  
   
When Thom returned to his home with a lost and traumatized Sam, Sarah took a while to accept Sam into her family, but finally, after he proved himself in a hunt, she set a bowl before him that night rather than telling him to fetch his own. Thom saw in Sam traces of the brother he'd lost years before, and together they taught him the hunting life.  
  
***  
  
Sam was well into the early spring thaw as he went across the land by the full moon. He was following an old road that he couldn't possibly recall from childhood, but in his mind he saw the trees as familiar signposts, the bends of the river as embracing arms that welcomed him further into the wild lands of Tennessee.  He steered clear of people out of habit, but more for fear of seeing someone who resembled Dean and stirring up the memories his long journey had finally settled.   
  
He remembered how the fire demon had spoken to him in his father's voice, mocking him as John burned – the same hollow voice that had spoken to the brothers in Salina five years later. Lost in his memories and his own gnawing hunger, Sam followed a path that led southeast.  He was tired of the road.  There was a place he had been safe, or at least a place of remembered safety, his reasons for leaving Tennessee obscured now by fatigue.    
  
***  
  
 _February 7, 1873    Kansas City, Missouri_  
  
In those first weeks after Sam departed, Dean was anything but settled – he walked the streets of Kansas City nearly every night, rather than oversee the increasingly wild events taking place at the Wyandotte.  The staff and even his supporters were speaking of him in troubled tones.  Dean didn't hear it; he was either in his room or out confronting the various men who had laid claim to Sal's fortune and questioned his legitimacy.    
  
He spent almost as many nights on the wooded bluffs above the river, but he only saw Black Katie's ghost once in a long while.  She was as lost as ever, still looking for the long-dead brother who'd been lynched a week before her own accident. Dean couldn't bring himself to tell her this, and each time she fell as she had nearly twenty years earlier.    
  
This night, an icy clarity defining the stars above, Dean watched Black Katie appear at the edge of bluff; he moved toward her now, feeling the chill she'd brought to the evening even beyond the winter cold.  His skin prickled at her scream and the uncanny flickering as she ceased to exist.  He looked down the cliff face to where he knew her bones must lay beneath years of undergrowth. With the memory of a cold night in a Missouri graveyard and Sam's lesson about salt and fire came loneliness and a longing that Dean shoved aside by turning away fast from the edge.  
  
***  
  
Dean returned to the brothel by the side entrance, but the party had grown in his absence and spilled into the halls and corridors; he was spotted almost immediately and a cheer went up among the patrons who had misinterpreted the lax conditions as his new style of management, not as his indifference and growing distraction.  Dean ran his hand across his face in exasperation.  He needed to get cleaned up, put his house in order – not deal with drunks.  He had security guards for that.  
  
"Mr. Dean, Sir!" cried one inebriated man who'd become separated from his pants and was soon to lose his underdrawers.    
  
"Sir, you shouldn't be in here with these ladies, _as they well know_ ," he added sternly.    
  
"Sal let us follow the customer's wishes," said one of the girls, Lissa, openly challenging him.   
  
"And Sal rests in peace.  You know my rules – if you don't, read them from the sign on the wall behind you.  Now get out and take the gentleman with you."  
  
"He's no gentleman," giggled Lily.  
  
"All guests are gentlemen, Lily."  It came off weary and pedantic when he said it, unlike Molly's coolly efficient manner, but it had the desired effect.  The girls cleared the corridor and he was able to retreat to his room without further interference.  _Molly!  Help!  You made it so much easier!_ he pleaded to the empty washroom as he sunk his head into a basin of cold water.    
  
He slept most of the next day, oblivious to the activities in the whorehouse, and stepped out again in the late afternoon.  He needed to find Sam, and he had for some time entertained a remote hope that Sam was just a short distance away in Lawrence, where he always seemed to end up.  In all the times he'd braved the town, though, he never did find Sam there.    
  
***  
  
Dean spent the weeks of deepest winter cold moving through his life like an automaton, watching business drop off as Linder confronted him more and more often, raising threats against him and his employees.  That he left Linder lying in a gutter with a new fracture each week did not bring him the satisfaction he expected it would.   
  
Somewhere between Three Kings and St. Valentines, Dean actually felt his face weighed down, felt the mask clearly as if it were reshaping him. He laughed at the sensation and so dislodged the mask, only to find that his wandering had led to the windowless room where Sam had slept.  Inside of two weeks he was on the verge of financial ruin, and out of business for good a week after that. Linder and his gang made this clear along the edge of a knife at his throat on his own back stairs.  
  
On the night of February 28th, nearly two months after Sal had died, and his last night in Kansas City, Dean went one final time to the bluff, the only place where his mind seemed free to think.  The conversation he held with himself there was noisy, but no wordier than his arguments with Sam had ever been.  He was grateful for the full moon, because he could see where he was headed, toes over the edge of the bluff, his mind made up.  
  
Dean's breath showed in the air, but that wasn't Katie's presence; he'd have to keep an eye out for her.  He understood her a little better now, and it made it easier to end things.  
  
In a few minutes, he felt her behind him.  He turned as if to a friend and spoke sincerely.  
  
"Katie, he's not down there.  He was killed.  Your brother's gone."    
  
Katie stopped, flickered, and shook her head, disbelieving.    
  
"He went on without you.  It's time you found him."    
  
Katie watched him warily, but didn't move.  
  
Dean dropped over the edge of the bluff, catching a tree root and giving his legs a chance to find some tiny ledge to stop his fall.  The cliff face was muddy and he slipped many times on the way down.  Below him, the bushes were thick; almost thick enough to bear his weight, but the bluff was steeper there, and he pushed through the twigs, which snapped easily.  He shifted his legs several times, his hands grasping from root to root.  
  
"I know you're down here somewhere!" he yelled back up the bluff, seeing Katie's shade looking over the side at him, or at nothing, he couldn't be sure.  To be caught in her gaze sent a shiver down his back.     
  
Past the tight bramble, he broke through and slipped nearly ten feet down to a ledge, landing atop the skeleton so long hidden from view.  He rolled back against the cliff, breathing hard, and got to his feet.  He lifted Katie's bones with the gentlest reverence, but the shape disintegrated.    
  
"I'll never get this back up," he muttered.  Then he turned and called back up to Katie, "You wait right there.  Won't take a minute."  
  
She leaned further over, able to see him and the bones for the first time.  
  
"NO, don't lean over! Just hold on!"  he shouted, waving her back.  
  
From his coat he took the salt he'd gathered from the Wyandotte's kitchen, and a jam jar of kerosene.  He soaked Katie's remains in the liquid, strewed salt on top and struck a match to her.    
  
"Shit!" He pressed himself back against the bluff as the fire flared up.  "Set the damn bluff on fire, just for you!"  
  
He turned his head to look at Katie, at the top. Her image burned away with the fire, evaporating from the bluff.  
  
"That's it?  No 'thank you'?"  
  
***  
  
He waited for the fire to burn out, almost a quarter hour with all the kerosene he'd brought with him.  He knew where Sam had gone, or thought he did.  Sam wanted what he wanted, he imagined, but Kansas City could never give him that.  Home could, home where he'd lived with their father, where he'd learned to be a hunter, where he'd had people who cared.  Sam had gone home.  Dean scrabbled his way back up to the top of the bluff, then spent the night bathing, packing his weapons satchel, checking every inch of the coach, stocking it with food and drinks, mainly alcoholic, and getting the horses hitched.  
  
After a short nap, he was bolt awake at 5:19 as always. He pulled out onto 3rd Street, setting his mind on a comfortable trip to Memphis, with luck picking up Sam's trail there.  He spent most of the next three days thinking of a way to explain himself.   
  
***  
  
 _March 7, 1873   Near Zion Grove, Tennessee_  
  
After walking most of the night along the edge of the forest with his wits sharp and his eyes wide, Sam slept through the next day under a fallen tree, and that evening headed deep into the woods toward the Auxier's home on the next ridgetop, still a good day's walk. He looked ahead for the landmark that meant he could rest.  The crossed pines that were barely visible that afternoon had vanished into the dark, but he knew the way now.   
  
He also knew he was being followed for almost a full minute before he ducked behind a large tree and crept around to the other side of the trunk to look at the path behind him.  He saw nothing.  He waited, but the sensation was gone, and the forest was alive with sounds but not of footsteps or bushes brushed aside.    
  
"Samuel?"    
  
He whipped back around, knife out but tight against the throat of a young woman, not more than ten years older than he was.  She didn't flinch.  She had a sort of glow, he would have said, but she was standing in a beam of moonlight so he dismissed it.  
  
"Sam, I won't hurt you. Listen to me."  
  
"What the hell are you?"    
  
The knife, iron blade with silver inlay, should have banished ghosts and shapeshifters both at the mere touch.  
  
The figure seemed lost for a moment, trying to think of an answer.  
  
"I think I'm your mother, Samuel."  
  
***  
  
March 3, 1873 -  Sikeston, Missouri   
  
The tiny Western Traveler's Rest skulked at the edge of Sikeston, the petulant outcast tavern of a small town at a crossroads midway between Kansas City and Memphis.  Dean strode in like he owned the place, gathered a bottle of whiskey and a single glass and winked at the bartender, dropping a bill on the bar to cover the bottle and a generous tip. Dean noticed the tall man seated against the wall and felt his unwavering stare remain on him as he made his way to a table in the corner.  He poured the whiskey, and looked up to see the man standing at his table.  He had green eyes, like his own, and like Sam's, similar enough to stir something uneasy in Dean.  He was dressed like a tradesman, his face covered by a dark beard with the tiniest traces of gray.    
  
"May I join you?" he asked in a deep voice that woke memories in Dean's mind.  
  
"I prefer to drink alone," Dean said.  
  
"Dean, I don't want to upset you, but-"  
  
"Do I know you?" Dean asked, alert.  
  
"My name's John."    
  
"And you know me?"  
  
"John Bennett's how I was born.  I raised Samuel up to be a good son, just like I did you."  
  
Dean was up and backing away from the man, his chair clattering backward on the floor. He had no way to know if this was truth or otherwise.  There was a passing resemblance, and the eyes were similar.  He looked like Sam had described him.  The warm voice covered a sternness he thought he recalled.   
  
"Leave me alone," Dean warned, shaken.  His back was against the tavern wall, his voice low.  
  
"I carried you out of the house when it burned.  You ran back in," John said, his voice cracking, "and I thought I'd lost you."   
  
Dean decided that the best way to play this was to be direct.  He regained some composure.  
  
"Sam watched you die.  In flames."  
    
"I need to talk to you and Samuel."   
  
"Talk to me.  Now."  
  
"Son,…"  
  
Dean's shoulders wriggled as if to throw off a grip he couldn't bear.  He tightened his face and waited. This was only going to get harder.  
  
"Dean," John said, stepping back a little.  "I'm going to ask you to do something terrible, and you'll think you can't.  But I need you to."    
  
Dean's head was spinning with possibilities and a powerful need for Sam to be there, right there with him.    
  
After a long pause, John said quietly, "I'm in Hell.  I found a way to reach out to you–"  
  
"Where's Mom?"  Dean interrupted.   
  
"She's here too, but I haven't seen her in so long.  They showed me once, and she was–"  He stopped, visibly shaken and sickened. "Don't make me say it, son."  
  
"And you?"   
  
"They torture me, then make me whole and start again.  Dean, you have to save me.  No matter what it takes.  No matter what Samuel says.  You can do it, if you want to.  Find a way into Hell and rescue me."    Dean was shaking his head, grinning.    
  
"This is not happening."  
  
"Dean, I'm sorry I left you.  I truly believed you were gone." The apology was sincere, and it woke something in Dean. "When I came back, Joanna said you were lost."  
  
"They lost me on purpose, your damn brother-in-law and his witch of a wife!"  The anger and fear of a five-year-old surfaced, and John touched his shoulder, pulled him in.  Dean leaned against John's chest, a warm hand on his cheek, warm lips kissing his hair as his father always had, each night.  He collapsed slowly to his knees as John sat down in the chair, always embracing him, warm and familiar.   
  
"Dean, listen, I don't have long.  Just tell me this..."  
  
Dean looked up into his father's eyes, and saw a tear there, which he more than matched with his own.    
  
"Do you forgive me, son?"   
  
"No," came the garbled reply from his tight throat.  
  
"Good boy.  And do you love your brother?"  
  
Dean blinked, and flushed.  John watched him steadily.  
  
"He's my brother."  
  
"He'll raise his hand against you, you know. Betray you.  What I'm asking is insane.  But I know you can do it.  You're my son."  
  
Dean pulled himself together and surveyed the bar for some sign, some confirmation of reality or unreality.  The few other customers were sunk in their drinks, and the bartender was in the far corner of the bar, making use of the whore he employed to keep customers happy.   Dean looked back up at John.  
  
"Dean.  You need to come soon.  I don't have long."    
  
"What about Mom?"     
  
"It might already be too late.  I'm holding on, but she's been down here for over 20 years.  She might even have lost the fight."  
  
"What do you mean-"  
  
"Dean, focus.  _Will you find a way to rescue me?_ "    
  
"Yes."  
  
Dean didn't recall John leaving, or how he came to be sitting at the table again, but the bartender was still occupied.  Dean stumbled outside, his head fuzzy.  It was dark despite the near-full moon; heavy clouds now covered the sky.  The coach was where he'd left it, out of sight two roads back.    
  
***  
  
 _March 7, 1873   Near Zion Grove, Tennessee_  
  
"You can't be my mother," Sam said to the woman who wore a simple nightdress, but was apparently not at all cold.  She had blonde hair, long and loose as if she were prepared for bed.  Her skin was scarred badly in places, especially a large twisted area on her neck.  One hand seemed fused together with angry scars of red flesh.    
  
"I can't remember everything, Sam – it's been _so_ long.  But I know who _you_ are, Samuel Bennett, you're my son. You were in my womb when the Fire came – so many months of pain.  I saw it burning you, and now I'm in that fire all the time.  
  
"My mother died twenty-two years ago in Kansas."  
  
"And your father took you and left your brother Dean behind, but he didn't die.  I stopped it – I stopped the Fire at the stairs when it reached out for my son."    
  
Sam winced at the thought of Dean and the long three-fingered scar that ran down his neck and shoulder.  He stared at her and realized he had no idea what his own mother might look like.  Dean had only said two things about her – she was beautiful, and this woman before him was truly that, even with the scars.  He'd said she was tired and sad at the end, and she was that too, there in the forest - pale, weary, and lost.  She looked exactly as Dean had looked when his brothel went up in flames, Sam now realized.  He could see Dean's lines in her face, and her features recalled a vivid memory of Dean's crippling loss that night.    
  
"Why are you here?" he asked.  
  
She looked around herself fearfully, as if waiting for something. He repeated the question when she didn't answer.  
  
"Why did you come here? _How_ did you come here?"    
  
"The Fire wants to consume you too, Samuel."  
    
"We killed it.  Last year, in Salina."  
  
"No, Samuel, you didn't.  You can't kill it.  It wants you now, more than ever, you and your brother.  You can't save me.  Let me go, let your father go."  
  
She touched his face softly, as she'd caressed him in his crib the night she wrapped the family Bible in his blankets for protection against the evil that soon devoured her.  
  
Sam didn't move away.  He couldn't, under that touch.    
  
"Dad?" he whispered, hurting all over.  
  
"He's not with me.  He's somewhere else."    
  
"We can-"  
  
"NO, Samuel!"  She was insistent now.  "You mustn't.  Let me be.  Go on with your lives.  You and your brother."  Then she asked softly, "Do you love him?"   
  
"I do."  
  
"Promise me you will never make deals with demons, never come to find me, never seek the Fire.  Dean either."  
  
"Mom…"  
  
The moonlight had moved and she was in shadow now, but still she glowed.  
  
"Promise."  
  
"We won't," Sam said without even thinking.  
  
With a flash, she was gone, leaving Sam blinded.  The forest was still now, not a note of the night birds, no scrabbling in the underbrush, not a leaf moved.  
  
***  
  
Sam was angry - at his father for lying his entire life, and at the thing he'd just seen, whatever it was, for pretending to be his mother.   And Dean, so damned… far away.   What really upset him was that he couldn't seem find his way to Thom and Sarah's house despite the cuts and clearings and hollers that he knew like his own skin.    
  
He heard music ahead of him, but it had to be close to midnight.  His watch showed eight forty-five, when he'd left the main road for the trees, yet it was running, ticking forward.  The moon was still rising, not overhead. Over the next ridge was the house, exactly where it should be, but not where he'd been when the moon was high and the night was late.  Everything was deceiving him.  He took a breath and shook his head, and his body followed.  
  
He knew they'd heard him already, so he made no effort to hide.  Sarah was in a chair, holding a young boy on her lap and reading to him. Two other men watched Sam approach from places they thought were invisible and unnoticed, but Sam saw. Sarah looked up, following the boy's outstretched finger, and a small smile flickered across her face, then caution took over.  She sent the little boy inside and turned to watch Sam approach.  
  
"Samuel?  Is it you?"  Her voice was as powerful as ever, demanding the truth from him.  
  
"It is."    
  
He was home now.   
   
"I'd expect nothing less than wise caution from you, Sarah.  Where's Thom?"   
  
"Thom's dead two years, Samuel.  No, don't look the guilty one, you had no way to know, and the pity you can keep for others.  We knew the life when we chose it, same as you."  
  
"Sarah,…Can I stay?"  
  
"Nothing out there worth hunting?   Never found your daddy's demon?"  
  
"Not that I could rightly say.  But I've killed a few."  
  
Sarah embraced him, too tight, saying only, "Silly boy. So big now, but always too far into danger before you knew it."  
  
Sam met the men who guarded the house, made himself at home again that night, and helped Sarah and her cousins hunt in the weeks that followed.  His mother's image never left his mind.  
  
***  
  
 _March 6, 1873   Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
An oddly warm, even balmy night had taken over Memphis, the south wind bringing the sound of singing from several blocks away toward the waterfront and the hotel.  Front Street was alive with people, horses and carriages of all types, and the lamps glowed brightly.  
  
A long winter had broken.  Dean inhaled deeply of the spring air, hoping it would cleanse his mind of what he'd seen in Sikeston, what could not have been his father.  The posters he'd noticed before were still up, or new ones – the colors were as fresh as ever, garish red and screaming yellow, and a vibrant turquoise.  Dean opened his notebook and took out the playbill he'd folded up the previous fall.  Whoever this Abelia was, she had staying power.    
  
"Let's see what a blind piano player can do that keeps her on stage for six months straight."  
  
He found the club not more than a few blocks away, and settled into a seat near the front.  The house was plunged into darkness, and then a single blazing light burst forth, revealing a piano on the empty stage.  From the back, he heard a murmur going up, and turned to see a tall woman threading her way through the chairs, around canes and legs and girls bringing drinks as if she saw everything.  Over her eyes and mouth were bands of turquoise fabric, tied in knots across her long, black curls.  She stopped when she got to Dean's table.    
  
"So far from home, and now here again," she said, raising her voice to address the crowd, "in the most popular show in Memphis."  She dropped her voice to a whisper when she leaned down to him - "and so free with the use of your free will."   
  
Dean heard her voice clearly despite the ribbon over her mouth.  She seemed to look right through the blindfold and into him.  
  
She made her way up the side steps of the stage as several gentlemen leaped up to assist her, but she had no need of their help.  She settled at the piano and touched the keys with long fingers, bringing out a melody Dean recognized from the war era, but slower, richer.  
  
It was a familiar ballad, a story of loss, brothers battling on opposite sides, and she pulled something out of Dean's memory with her voice, an image of Mary, his mother, putting a piece of pie in front of him, and then sitting wearily next to him as he ate.  When he had eaten all of it, she lifted her pregnant body from the chair to clear and Dean, always curious, touched her stomach.   
  
"How long?"   
  
"Almost six weeks, Dean.  Are you ready?"  
  
He looked up at her, wondering what he needed to be ready to do.  
  
"He'll be your brother forever.  Just like Mommy and Daddy are here for you."  
  
"Can he get his own pie?"  
  
"Don't you want to share, so he gets big and strong?"  
  
"I don’t want him big and strong, I want him my size.  Maybe a little smaller."  
  
"You'll be big and strong, someday, both of you.  Then you can go out in the world and fight all the monsters."  
  
"Like the one that scares you?"  
  
She dropped a glass and Dean heard it hit but not shatter.  He looked down at the carpet that had broken its fall, watching the glass roll back and forth in a wet stain on the floor of the club.  An ovation erupted while a fastidious waiter scooped up the glass, smiling quickly at Dean and apologizing.  
  
Abelia had stood up from the piano bench and taken several deep bows, but Dean was too shocked to applaud.  He finally stood up too late and watched as the audience streamed out into the warm night.  
  
"Intermission?" he asked the waiter.  
  
"No sir, that's the show.  But Miss Abelia's taken a liking to you.  She wants to join you for a drink, if you'll stay."  
  
"What?" Dean blinked.    
  
He saw Abelia approaching, dealing with the last well-wishers with grace and kindness.  The waiter put down two whiskeys and Abelia settled into the empty chair across from him.    
  
"How do you pack the house with only one song a night?"  
  
"It's nearly ten p.m."  
  
He checked his watch but had trouble believing the evening was over.    
  
"What brought you here?" she asked, all calmness gone and replaced with urgency.  
  
"Could you take off the ribbons now?" he asked.  
  
In a flash, they were gone, looped in her hand.  Her eyes were deep brown, like Molly's.  She waited for his answer and he talked for lack of anyone else to tell; it relieved him.  
  
"I came to find something I lost track of.  Thought I'd start here and head east."  
  
Her face was worried but she said, "Bring your brother to the show when you return; I'll put two tickets aside for you and him."  
  
"You're not blind at all, are you?"  
  
"Do you wonder how I know your life, Dean?"  
  
"I've stopped wondering.  You don't feel like a demon."  
  
"Aren't you charming. You'd best go find him then, before it's too late."  
  
***  
  
 _March 7, 1873    Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
Dean hated early guests and didn't want to be one, but he had to see Malachi again, let him know that he was going after Sam. He'd left the club with a strong sense of purpose despite the questions in his mind.    
  
He knocked, but there was no answer.  He turned the door handle and found it open, as always. Malachi was not there.  In the house, he noticed the same odd collection of items he'd seen before, as if picked at random and laid on the shelf –  a straight razor, sheet music, a small disc of black glass, and a Bible.  He lifted the Bible, a small family version like the one he'd lost in the fire.  
  
It opened to the story of Cain and Abel when he lifted the cover; Dean closed it up again. He'd heard the story once as a child, but never understood why a man would kill his brother just to win the favor of an angry God.  He put it back.  He took it back down a second later and flipped to the back, where he kept his exorcisms, but there were none written there.  Nikolas had had two in his Bible, Kearney kept at least six versions in his, and Sam wrote his there too.  _What kind of hunter are you, Malachi?_  
  
He left the Bible where he found it and looked for the book he'd seen before, a book filled with odd writing or hieroglyphs.  It was tucked inside the same sleeve, but he couldn't read or make sense of it; it was unintelligible symbols for nearly 200 pages, and then it stopped.  The final block of writing was different, hurried.  His name was at the end of it, in English letters, followed by empty pages.    
  
***  
  
 _March 9, 1873   Zion Grove, Tennessee_  
  
"Samuel?"  
  
"Jeremy!"  Sam pushed the book of werewolf lore away and stood up to greet his adopted uncle, a towering bear of a man.  
  
"Hey squirt, how are you now?  Been giving my sister another mouth or six to feed?"  
  
"I eat my share," Sam laughed.  
  
"Well, that's saying something."  
  
"What brings you to this side of the mountains?  Is Virginia all cleared of monsters?"    
  
"Not hardly.  But I been in Nashville and heard tell someone was looking for you.  A lawman."  
  
Sam's expression shifted from easy to serious.  
  
"You in trouble?" Jeremy asked bluntly. "We don't need the law poking around here."   
  
"No, no trouble," Sam said, thinking of Salina, and Lawrence, and Creve Coeur and a few other places where trouble had found them and clung fast.    
  
"Wouldn't have worried, but when I stopped in Knoxville, James Colley told me he'd had a man there too.  Seems he's working his way east."  
  
"What did he want?"  
  
"Nothing; just said he needed to find you, ask you some questions.  Flashed his badge around a lot.  Deputy Marshal So-and-so.  Living a mighty high life for a government man, Colley said.  
  
"His name?"  
  
"Thorne, something like that?"  
  
"Hawthorne?" Sam burst out. It couldn't be.  "Nate Hawthorne?"  
  
"No, Thorne, but his given name was sorta French, Cajun."  
  
"Remy?"  Sam was grinning, savoring each new bit of information.  
  
"That's it."   
  
"Ha!  He's an idiot.  That badge isn't even real."  
  
"You know this character?"  
  
"Yeah!  He's my – he…"  Sam stalled, his voice dying.   "He's a good friend."  
  
"We'll keep an eye out for him.  He's not hard to spot."  
  
***  
  
 _March 15, 1873   Zion Grove, Tennessee_  
  
'Remy Thorne' turned up twice more, once north of Knoxville, then again to the south, in Sevierville, always at saloons.  And then he vanished and his black coach with him.  
  
"From the eye of God, gone!" said Jeremy, a week later. "He's not anywhere, and everyone's lookin'."  
  
Sam spent a few nights on the porch, even in the heavy rain, waiting for a green-eyed, strong-jawed, completely fake lawman to come clomping out of the woods.  He didn't show.  Sarah put her head out the door late one night, told Sam to get to bed and not read the lore books out where the rain could get on them.    "Sorry, I'm almost done with this," he apologized, and she shook her head and closed the door softly.  
  
The image of the werewolf on the page held his attention; Sarah and Thom had made werewolves a specialty after losing siblings to them.  The wilds of Tennessee were cleared of every last one, went the story, after the Auxiers' ten-year extermination mission.  
  
"Still got your nose in a book, huh?"    
  
Sam jumped out of the chair – the voice was on the porch behind him.  He spun around, knife drawn, but his head had already stopped his hand.   The knife hung loosely.  
  
"DEAN!" he yelled.  
  
"Yeah, Sam, keep it down.  No sense scaring everyone."  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"Clearing my head."   
  
"It's kind of a long walk from Kansas City."  
  
"It took a while to clear it all out," Dean said honestly.  
  
"My empty-headed brother. Come here!"  Sam was overcome.  
  
Dean stepped forward awkwardly for someone who had made it from the trees to the porch unseen and unheard.  When Sam was within reach, his arms wide for his brother, Dean seized him, pulling him as close as he could.     
  
"Sammy," was all he said but the hug never let up.  
  
Sam had one hand on Dean's neck and was halfway to something he'd missed without even realizing it, when he heard the door open.  
  
"Is this Remy?" Sarah asked.  Dean let go and watched her and then Sam, to see the way it would play out.    
  
"This is Dean."  His voice died out as he looked at Dean, his steady gaze and the half smile that was true, not performed.  After a short, warm moment, he found the strength again.  "He's Dean.  I worked with him in Lawrence.  He saved my life."  It felt good to talk and he kept talking Dean up for another minute or two until Sarah interrupted him.  
  
"Dean, come inside.  You’re here when my hospitality is stretched almost to its limit, and for that I apologize.  But if you come in, you can share a bed with Samuel, and we'll feed you well in the morning.  
  
"Thank you ma'am."    
  
Sam stared a little longer and followed Dean inside.      
  
***  
  
"Sam, I'm exhausted.  I've been up and down these hills here and in and out of too many hollers to remember.  There's not a flat spot for miles.  I'll talk. One hell of a story, but tomorrow."   
  
"A goatee, Dean?"  
  
"A beard, Sam?  Tomorrow, okay?"  
  
Sam was sitting cross-legged on the bed, where he'd settled after pacing the small room for the brief time it took for Dean to get his boots and coat and outer clothes off.  He was waiting for Dean to stop joking and tell him everything but Dean was asleep in half a minute, breathing roughly.  Sam took his hand and his breathing became deeper.  The dark hair on his chin did him good.  He was thin, like he hadn't eaten well for months.  The smells filled the room; whiskey and coffee on his breath, wet wool, pine sap, and leather gloves, and the faint bath-salts smell that Dean had carried since their first meeting at the club in Salina, layered over sweat and a scent he knew like his own, like his father's.  The lamp ran out of fuel and they went from near-dark to complete night, but Sam could see every inch, every line of his brother.  He could feel the pulse under his hand, the rise-and-fall regularity of Dean's deep sleep.    
  
He didn't remember falling asleep himself, but woke cold, his face buried in Dean's side.  A tug of the quilt and the warmth of the man next to him were enough to lure him back into sleep.


	9. In Good Old Times (When Times Were Bad)

_March 16, 1873   Zion Grove, Tennessee_  
  
When Sam woke, Dean was lying there, staring at the ceiling.  He looked shaken.  
  
"Dean, what…?"   
  
"Did you and Dad live in a place like this?"  
  
"No, it was only a two-room cabin.  A lot smaller than this, a lot worse.  We cooked in the fireplace, ate on the porch.  Why?"  
  
"Because I saw Dad."    
  
Sam waited silently for that to make sense.  
  
"I mean, I know it wasn't Dad, but it was.  I touched him.  He knew me."  
  
"Start over, Dean."  
  
"I was in Sikeston, middle of nowhere Missouri.  He was there, in a bar.  John Bennett he said he was.  Who else could know?"  
  
"A demon?"  
  
"He said he was in Hell, and I had to come get him."  
  
"No, Dean, you can't.  It wasn't him.  I _watched_ him die.  He burned up."  
  
"Sam, when he held me…."   Dean turned to look at his brother, his eyes glistening.  
  
"He held you?"    
  
Sam wanted that embrace again.  
  
"He kissed me on the head.  He used to do that every night.  I remembered."  
  
"Dean, it can't –"  
  
"If you'd seen him, Sam –"     
  
"You don't even know what he looks like."    
  
"Just like you described him, Sam.  Tall, dark hair, green eyes, beard shot with grey.  Even the scar on his hand."  
  
Sam fought between two responses – a desperate desire to believe and a doubt fueled by his own vision of Mary.  
  
"Dean, why would he come to you?"    
  
"To tell me I have to save him," Dean said calmly, as if it should be clear.   
  
"What about Mom?  What about saving _her_?"   
  
Dean thought for a moment.    
  
"We're too late?"  
  
"Okay, you're not going to like this, Dean, but… not according to Mom."  
  
"Wait, what?"  Dean sat up suddenly.  
  
"It wasn't her I saw, Dean, just like it wasn't Dad."  
  
"Describe her!"    
  
Sam did his best to recall what he'd seen, and to his regret he saw Dean's face going blank, his eyes far off.  
  
"That's Mom."  
  
"It _wasn't_ though, don't you see?  This is demons, or, or _something_. She told me never to come after her, or Dad.  Never make a deal with a demon.  And she said that goes for you too."    
  
"What?  She'd never–" Dean slammed his hand on the bed frame. "What the hell is going on, Sam?"    
  
"I don't know.  Why are demons telling us to come to Hell and to stay out at the same time?"  
  
"WHY ARE DEMONS talking to us at all?!" Dean switched to a stage whisper halfway through.  
  
The door opened on a knock and Jeremy poked his head around to see if they were up.  The enticement of fresh hotcakes wafted in on the warm air.  Sam's leg was hooked around Dean's, unconsciously intimate, but Jeremy was a single-minded man.  
  
"Demons?  You found some out there?" he asked.  
  
"Found 'em and killed 'em," said Dean spiritedly.  
  
"Tell us over breakfast," he said. "And Sam, introduce your friend around.  If he's half as good as you put on him, we can use him."  
  
He shut the door, but several other voices could be heard in the main room.  
  
"Tough crowd," said Dean after the door closed.  
  
"They take well to strays.  Don't you worry," Sam reassured him.  "We can take a walk, talk more after breakfast."  
  
Dean opened the door a few minutes later to seventeen faces, all staring at him, and at Sam right behind him.  At least six of them were kids, between two and ten years old, Dean guessed.  He leaned back slightly, but Sam's hand on his back gave him a steady push.   
  
***  
  
Sam pulled three hotcakes onto his plate and lifted a few onto Dean's too, as Sarah watched them both. Dean dove into the food with the same eagerness the kids did. After the plateful and two cups of coffee had vanished, he felt human enough to introduce himself.  
  
"We trained together, in St. Louis," Dean said, fabricating a respectable history on the fly.  
  
"Did Sam teach you about werewolves and vampires?" asked Jeremy.  
  
"They're real?" Dean said, a bit too excited.   
  
"How new is he, Sam?" Jeremy asked, laughing.   
  
"He's a good hunter, just got a late start."  
  
Dean was caught between excitement and embarrassment at being the greenhorn.  
  
"So when do we start?" he asked.  
  
"Vampires and werewolves are horrible killers, not old wives' tales, Dean," Sarah said.    
  
"Let's get them then," Dean replied, utterly serious.  
  
Sam watched him, waiting for the masks to appear, but this was Dean, the hunter, his brother.  _I got you back,_ Sam wondered at his good fortune.  
  
***  
  
 _March 17, 1873_  
  
"Those all hunters?" Dean asked, standing on the porch in the morning light, tall trees blocking the ridge from sight.  
  
"Mostly kin, come for the party.  It's Abel's tenth birthday tomorrow," said Sarah, hanging clothes to dry.  
  
"Abel?  That's a hell of name to lay on a kid," Dean commented.  
  
"I like my name!" said Abel, behind him.  "What's yours again?"  
  
 "I'm Dean.  I kill bad things.  Sort of a family business, I guess."  
  
"Yeah, that's what Daddy did."  He seemed unimpressed.  "Come on, let me show you the caves."  
  
"Sam, you wanna come with?" Dean asked a bit nervously, as Abel dragged him away through the trees.    
  
"I'll be right there," Sam grinned.  
  
***  
  
Abel led Dean through the trees toward a steep hillside, talking the entire time.     
  
"You don't have to do everything with your brother do you?" he asked seriously.  "I know kids like that.  Not even twins or nothing and all they do is hang around their brothers and sisters."    
  
Dean had stopped abruptly on the trail behind Abel as soon as he said 'brother'.  Abel stopped eventually and turned around.  
  
"What did you say?" Dean asked, hiding his nervousness.  
  
"Your brother, Sam, and you - do you do everything together?  Because that's very boring."  
  
"Why would you say he's my brother?"  
  
"'Cause of how you look at him.   Like you love him but you want to smack him too."  
  
Dean laughed.    
  
"Your folks don't even know Sam's got a brother."    
  
"Why not?"   
  
"I grew up a long way away," Dean said. "Can you keep it a secret for us?"  
  
"I guess.  Come on, the cave's just over here."  
  
***  
  
Dean returned within the hour and Sam joined him for a hike, complete with sandwiches, more as a bribe for Dean to head off into the forest again.    
  
"My big moment and I put my worst foot forward," Dean muttered.  
  
"You have a gift, Dean, what can I say.  But they like you. 'Trusted friend' or not, you wouldn't be here on my word alone, not with food and shelter and an invitation to a ten-year-old's birthday party."    
  
"I never had one, figured I should see it firsthand."  
  
"Dad got me a rifle for mine."  
  
"He's a pretty sharp ten-year-old, you know that?  Knew his way around every weapon in that cave.  Knew we were brothers too."  
  
"What?"  Sam looked alarmed.  
  
"I told him to keep it a secret.  Not gonna lie to a ten-year-old – they sniff out lies in a second."  
  
Sam was silent, thinking about Sarah's likely reaction, and Jeremy's.  
  
"Do I have to give Abel something?" said Dean, fishing in his satchel for an appropriate gift.  
  
"No, Dean, don’t worry."  He hesitated, then said, "We'll celebrate yours next year."  
  
"Yeah, we can skip that, Sam."  He turned to the topic of family again.  "If it was a demon, it wants us in Hell, right?  Ghosts don't move around the country to find their kids. Do they?"  He paused.  "What did I see in Sikeston?  What are the options?"    
  
"Ghoul.  Shapeshifter.  Some other kind of emanation from beyond the grave."  
  
"Meaning it could have been Dad communicating from Hell?  Why come to me?"  
  
"Dad left you behind.  He knows you'd respond to his attention.  A demon would know that too.  And demons can't change their appearance; only take possession of someone here on Earth.  Someone who looks enough like Dad to convince you."  
  
Dean shook his head quietly, looking at the ground. "If he's alive, and we can get him out, we have to."    
  
"That isn't possible, Dean.  We'd be dead.  It's not a reconnaissance mission, it's suicide, and they get our souls as well as Mom and Dad's.  Every last one of us."    
  
"Is that what they want?  Why?"  
  
"Mom showing up is what doesn't make sense.  Why would two demons say opposite things?  Why come to us in forms we'd never seen?"    
  
"It's a con," Dean said, but Sam was distracted by his memories.  
  
"I thought she was a shapeshifter, or a ghoul, but when I cut her, nothing happened."    
  
"You _cut_ her?"   
  
"Had my knife at her throat, yeah.  She didn't bleed.  She wasn't Mom.  It was a vision, or something.  A hallucination."  
  
"Have you ever had a hallucination like that before?"  
  
"No, but I never had a fire demon after me, or a man come through the wilds of Tennessee to find me."  
  
"Boys?"  Jeremy said, a tone of concern in his voice.  They'd come full circle back to the house and hadn't seen him working on the roof.   
  
"Hey Jeremy," Dean answered as casually as he could.  
  
"Did you say-?   
  
"Bad dream I had last night.  My house burned down when I was a kid; I've never forgotten it."  
  
Jeremy watched them head up to the main house.  _Samuel, you been gone too long. Lost your way._  
  
***  
  
 _March 27, 1873_  
  
The roast at Sunday dinner was good, and Dean had learned not to ask what the meats were, specifically.  Sometimes they were edible; sometimes it was a matter of will.  Early berries helped to disguise the flavor, but vegetables were few and similar.  Dean was putting weight back on quickly despite this.  
  
The family cleared out after dinner, leaving only Sam, Dean, and Sarah, who asked them how long they planned to stay with her.    
  
"As long as you'll have us," was Dean's first thought, but Sam spoke before him.  
  
"We need to get some things settled first, decisions about where we go from here, and then we'll be out."  
  
"Samuel, I was not asking you to go.  I was hoping you'd stay until Easter or even May Day, at the very least."  
  
Dean's stomach sank at the thought.  He was beginning to get a little stir crazy in just the month he'd been there.  Sharing a room with Sam had proven easier than he thought, mainly because Sarah's chores and the hunter's training runs and practice fights exhausted them both.    
  
"What brought you back?" Sarah asked, looking at Sam.  "All grown up now, you look like your father, even that beard growin' in."    
  
Dean stopped eating and looked at Sam, who had no words.  
  
"You couldn't wait to go from here," Sarah said to the wall, her voice tinged with frustration.  
  
"I needed to move on.  I've always been grateful to you and Thom, but you know how my father died. I had to find out what did it."  
  
"Well did you ever?  We had plenty of things to hunt right here, including the wolves that got Thom, and we needed your help. He put his faith in you and made you part of this family when no one else would, and now he's gone, you come back looking for a place to hide?  
  
"We're not hiding," Dean interjected.    
  
Sarah looked at him as if he'd just sat down at the table.  
  
"Hunters know hiding."  
  
"We're searching for what killed John.  We almost had it, in Kansas," Dean replied.  "Sam's been busy all these years."  
  
She looked at Dean, and back at Sam, whose face was working silently as he too watched Dean from under his brow.  She saw something between them that she knew well – her own brother's shaded expressions around the family growing up.  
  
"Dean, did Sam tell you how Thom and I met?  Why we hunted?"  
  
"No ma'am, he never did."  
  
"Then I will," she replied, settling both hands on the table.  "Our brothers were killed by werewolves.  They were friends for many years, but we never knew the other's kin well because they kept to themselves in a cabin far off, didn't invite family around often.  When the wolves came, they never had a chance."    
  
She paused and rubbed her hands together as if they ached.  
  
"We lost them because they didn't trust us enough, their own flesh and blood, to speak the truth of their life together. We would have been there to fight with them."    
  
"Sarah…" Sam began, astonished at this untold part of the familiar tale.  
  
"I'm not an ignorant woman, Samuel."  
  
Sam took her hand and squeezed it.  Dean caught on quickly and blushed, which made Sarah laugh quietly.  
  
***  
 _March 30, 1873_  
  
"We can't get our parents back.  We can't have a 'normal life,' knowing what's out there," Sam argued.  
  
"I should go in," Dean stated, his mind made up.  "I know what Mom looks like, I'm a better fighter than you, and I'm less emotional.  I won't be tempted."    
  
Dean stopped, his points made. On the verge of laughing, Sam shook his head slowly.    
  
"Was there a logical argument in there somewhere?  I have the training, I know Dad much better than you know Mom, and you are not less emotional.  You're less mature… is all," Sam said, ending on a bad note and realizing it too late.  Dean ignored it.  
  
"So we both go, split up, get one out each."  
  
"It's not a rescue, Dean, this is Hell," Sam said, as clearly as he could form the word. "We don’t even know what it's like down there.  And no," he said, seeing Dean's next idea forming, "reading Virgil's Aeneid doesn't help you know what to expect in the underworld."  
  
"Well Malachi might just know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I stopped by to see him on the way here.  He was out, again, but I looked around a little more,-"  
  
"Dean!  That's what I mean by imma-"  
  
"It's impolite, not immature, and it would help me fit right in down there.  You're the good one -  they'd eat you alive."  
  
"I think they'd do that to anyone.  Kinda the point of Hell."  After a moment, Sam finally asked the question they'd both been thinking: "How would I get you back?  Hell is for eternity."  
  
"How do the demons get out?"  
  
"They're demons, Dean.  You don’t even get to think about going that far."    
  
"And we let Mom and Dad suffer because we're not willing to?"  
  
"Dean…" Sam was exasperated, but Dean's own subtle kind of logic was making inroads.  
  
"Fine.  I'll tell that to Dad," Dean said harshly.  "He's in my nightmares once a week now."  
  
***  
  
 _April 4, 1873_  
  
The walk back from the chapel service to Sarah's was a languid one, rich with friends and family come from miles around to spend Easter week preparing for the big Sunday meeting. Sam and Dean separated from the other groups amid the dappled light of the trees, pushing through low bracken and sword ferns toward a pair of crossed pines in the distance that marked Zion Grove.  
  
"I know you don't like me," Dean stated, stopping to rest.  
  
Sam stood silent for a long while, but more out of relief than anything else.  Dean remained quiet, but fidgeted while leaning against a tree, waiting out the silence that was so much worse than the many answers he'd prepared for, or the words he turned on himself.  
  
"The truth?" Sam asked, looking sideways under the hair that fell across his eyes.  "No, I didn't.  I thought I would, or I had to, or … I could make myself like you, but when Sal got inside you – look, I don't care what she did, she's gone.  I care what you do from here on."   
  
"I failed…back there in Kansas City.  I lost everything I had.  The Wyandotte is someone else's curse now."  
  
"Dean, you had what you wanted.  Why did you give up?"  
  
"I couldn't do it any more. It wasn't my place.  The staff didn't want a man in charge, and the customers didn't much like it either.  Linder and Lennox teamed up to lean on my clients, and the bank, and the law… - every single damn one of them wanted me gone.  
  
Sam was silent again.  He finally found the words that hurt least.  
  
"I came here to find exactly what you hoped to find there. _Home_ , Dean.  And it isn't home."  
   
"This place isn't so bad.  It's like a…. " Dean searched for a comparison to something that was even somewhat positive and came up empty.    
  
"Come on, Dean, we're being honest.  It's not home, not for all the hotcakes and porch songs."  
  
"Is this how out of place you felt in Kansas City, in the brothel?  Like I do now?"  
  
"Yeah. 'Cept I covered it better."  Sam grinned.  
  
He wandered in a circle around Dean, looking among the ferns.  Finally he stooped and pulled a plant from the soil.   
  
"Bloodroot!" Sam exclaimed, holding it up.     
  
Dean just smiled at him.  _T_ _his is Sam without demons, and it is good._  
  
"Sarah uses it to make dyes," Sam explained happily.  His hand was covered with red stains from the sap, so Dean merely looked at it observantly, nodding.  
  
"So you don't like me?" Dean concluded, smiling.  
  
"No, Dean, not all that much," Sam chuckled. "But I want you here.  Stick with me this time."   
  
"What was all that back then, in Salina?  Before we knew.  In my room."  
  
A memory of powerful lust and need had stayed with Sam, despite knowing Dean was his brother.   "That was… respect.  Friendship. And I don't know what the rest of it was."  
  
"Two out of three then?"  
  
"Which two?"  
  
"Your choice.  I'm hungry, Sam."  
  
***  
  
That Friday, Sam came back from the pond in the afternoon with a wicked grin on his face.  Dean sensed something had changed, but Sam only hovered around him the rest of the day, dodging his questions.  Dean wanted him to sit still, sit where he could hold him - sit across him like he had in his room in Salina. The image had been in his mind every night that week – and when he woke nearly every night, his cock already spent, Sam was warm against him.     
  
***  
  
"The pond's just right.  Come on.  Night swimming is the best."  There was an eagerness in Sam that Dean hadn't seen in a long while, and the night was warm enough after a week of steady sun.   
  
"Ponds, Sam.  Mud, weeds, it's bad enough by day."  
  
"We'll go in by the rock.  You can jump from there. …  Perfect night for skinny-dipping."  
  
"Huh?  I'm not dangling my parts for the fish, Sam."  
  
"They're little tiny fish, Dean," he argued with a laugh and mischief in his eyes.    
  
As they reached the low slab of rock that jutted into the pond, Sam was already pulling off his shirt and unbuttoning his pants.       
  
Dean was taking everything in, and every part of him wanted this man in front of him, his brother, his blood, no matter.  
  
He watched Sam drop his pants and fold them into a pile on the still-warm rock.  Sam's cock was clearly at about the same point Dean's brain had been at all day.  
  
Sam shucked his underwear and ran from Dean, diving headfirst into the pond, arms out, legs curling up.   He surfaced, a pale spot with dark hair clinging to it and a wide smile.  
  
"C'mere, city boy…"  
  
Dean undressed faster than his most desperate clients, and yet, when he had only his underwear left, he looked around at the gray shore once more, unable to see anyone in the moonlight.  
  
"Skinnydippin' means skin.  Fish won't bother with bait that large."    Sam was chest-deep in the inky coolness of the pond, laughing. There was no other place to be.  
  
Dean stripped off the last piece, grinning, and headed for the pond at a run, going feet first. He popped up, breathing hard, and swam to Sam.  They treaded water for a long time, just looking at each other, passing questions and answers back and forth.   
  
Dean put his hand on Sam's chest, then leaned closer and kissed Sam's shoulder.  _Sweat and all the summers before that._   All the years he'd missed, in that one mouthful.  They sank lower in the water, farther from shore.  Sam's breath came faster now, echoing in little scintillations of moonlight on the surface.  The air went heavy and hazy, obscuring the details of the shore as night fell, leaving only Sam in his arms, pressed tight against him.  
  
"Do you think we could do this back on land?" Dean asked.  "This water's not summer-warm quite yet."  
  
"Sure we can do this on the shore, if you don't mind the dirt and twigs in your back.  How about the rock?" Sam said, his eyes on Dean's as ever.  
  
***   
  
Sam settled across Dean on the radiant warmth of the flat outcropping, and they were both clear about what this was – brotherhood would have to come with time, as hunting already had.  This was the thing that didn't need a name right now, but need to _be_ , right now.  
  
They were at the same point, aching for closeness.  Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders and pushed himself down hard. His shadowed face, framed in long tangles of wet hair, seemed clear to Dean.  Sam's hands slipped to Dean's neck as he pushed Sam down on him, deep inside him again after a year.  Their hoarse shouting silenced the crickets for a few seconds, then Sam exhaled a deep laugh.  Dean lay in the night, seeing the moonlight through his eyelids, calm at last.    
  
Warm lips pressed Dean's cheek, closer to his mouth each time.  His mouth opened slowly, then closed on Sam's upper lip.  He pulled it gently, dragging his teeth across it as he let it go.  There was no one else.  
  
***  
  
 _May 1, 1873_  
  
The party followed soon on Easter.  Sam and Dean set up extra camp beds in Sarah's house and Jeremy's place for the guests. The men had found trout in the streams and turkey in the hollers; the dishes could scarcely be set down before they were consumed. Dean and Sam hadn't talked about their parents for two weeks, hadn't dealt with demons for over a month.    
  
Music started in the afternoon, dulcimers and guitars, and the occasional fiddle, and Sarah danced with Jeremy, joined by some of the younger children.  Men vastly outnumbered women when the hunters arrived, but they danced with each other anyway in awkward pairs, happy that the hunting had eased off temporarily.    
  
Sarah pulled Sam onto the low wooden platform and Dean watched in pure amazement as Sam revealed a talent for moving that his hunting muscles only enhanced.  When they'd completed a complicated round, Sarah left him and took Dean's hand.   
  
"I don't know those steps.  I can do a mean waltz if you can keep up," he promised.  
  
"Show me, sir," she said, bowing and taking his arm.    
  
Fortunately, Dean had been well trained by Sal and later by Molly in a way to dance that all gentlemen should know, and he was not surprised when Sarah more than kept up with him.  
  
***  
  
Farewells were taken late at night.  Soft light came from the lanterns around the dance floor and the depleted table of food lured Dean still.  The afterglow of the lengthening days still shone in the west, and soft murmurs from a few had replaced the loud talk of many.    
  
Sam sat with Dean at the edge of the light, pressed up against him comfortably.  Dean took a drink from his cup, a warm homemade lightning brought by Jeremy's friends, and Sam felt his arm slide up and back down.  Dean hadn't enjoyed the first cup, so he said, but Sam saw him asking for his second cup not long after.  He set the empty cup on the table and watched the musicians, who'd never tired; they'd slowed their rhythm to a soft melody, the same one Dean had heard in Memphis, an old war tune about brothers.  
  
He sat forward to listen. Sam stood and took his arm.   
  
"This one's easy.  Follow me."  
  
"Sam-"  
  
Sam kept them apart, one hand in Dean's hand and one on Dean's hip.  It wasn't a step that Dean could follow as easily as Sam seemed to think he should.  Dean blamed the moonshine.  But somehow, they managed to find a place for their feet that wasn't on top of each other, or going in opposite directions, and Sam never let go.  Dean's hand moved nervously, of its own accord it seemed, up the rough cotton from Sam's hip to his side, to brace against his back when Sam went too fast for him.  
  
Laughter filled the evening even as lightning crackled in the distance.    
  
As the wind from the east increased, and the lightning grew brighter and more frequent, the flames fluttered, even the ones in glass.  A heavy guttural sound came from them, and Dean stopped dancing exactly when Sam did, his skin crawling as he listened.    
  
"No, not here.  It can't be back," Dean pleaded.  
  
"DOUSE ALL THE FLAMES!" Sam yelled, letting go of Dean.  "Demons!"  The party and the surroundings were plunged quickly into darkness, broken by shouting.  The lightning and wind seemed to fade for a moment.  Out of Sarah's house came Abel and his mother, carrying a single lamp.  
  
"What on Earth is all the shouting?" she asked.  
  
"Put that out now!" shouted Sam.  
  
The wind picked up, but there was no thunder, or rain, or cloud, only lightning over the ridge.     
  
"We don’t get storms from the east, here, Dean," Sam said, and it was explanation enough.  
  
"What then, exorcism?"  
  
"Let me try the widow's prayer again. Say it with me."  Sam repeated each line to Dean, ending with "one bearing fire, the other ice," and together they spoke the words.  Jeremy was close enough to hear.  
  
With the last flame out and the sky lit up with lightning again, the prayer seemed to be having no effect.    
  
"Demons!" shouted Jeremy as ribbons of black smoke and cold fire shot down at them, circling ominously and finding targets.  Three guests fell before their eyes, then rose again, black eyes invisible in the dark.  The moon emerged from behind the trees, a waning moon but enough to show the smirks on their faces, the perpetual scorn of demons.  
  
"Use the Latin, Dean."  
  
Dean seized a man moving toward Abel, flipped him on his back on the ground and pressed his forehead down hard, racing through the litany.  Sarah brought sanctified water from the house and doused the demon, sending up a cloud of steam that annoyed it but little more.  
  
"Dean!"   
  
Sam's call for help came from the other side of the board, where Jeremy was advancing on him with a knife.  He quickly had a hand on Sam's throat and crushed any word of exorcism.  
  
"Gonna hack me a up a Winchester or two tonight!" he said with a gleeful cruelty in his voice. "You think your exorcism works on us?  We've got the Lord's blessing, and his power!"   Jeremy's long knife burst into flames up and down the blade – cold, dancing flames like the ones that had scarred Sam and Dean both.  
  
Sam struggled to pry Jeremy's fingers from his throat.  Dean came running, saying instead the prayer he'd just learned from Sam, and Jeremy's knife was just a knife again.  The demon in him roared with fury.     
  
"First I kill your brother, then I kill you!"  
  
"Jeremy, it's me – Dean."  
  
"Jeremy's just watching, but he'll be following you into Hell."  
  
Sam shook as his body starved for oxygen; he was pointing behind Dean, who spun around and saw another hunter there, an older man with a lined face and piercing eyes.  His eyes weren't black but had a yellow fire in them, just like Catherine Henry's had, back in Salina when everything burned.    
  
"Hello, Dean.  I expect we'll be seeing a lot of you soon, but you need to leave this place now.  Time to be moving along.  You aren't welcome anymore."  
  
He threw back his head and a demon roared away into the night toward the cloud of lightning.  Jeremy's demon left him as well and Sam dropped to the floor, gasping, his eyes on Dean.  
  
Dean looked back toward Sam, their faces twisted in pain and matching anger, lives in chaos again.   
  
Sarah was at Jeremy's side. The words of the demons were in everyone's mind, and the words of the prayer Sam and Dean had spoken against the fire echoed in Jeremy's head.    
  
"He could only have learned that from the Widow," Jeremy said quietly as Sarah tended to him.    
  
"It only passes to blood, and she wasn't blood," Sarah replied.  "If they can use those words, then what blood do they come from?  John wasn't from around here, and he never mentioned no wife or mother."  
  
"And brothers?  Sam had no brother."  
  
"No, I pray that was a demon's lie," Sarah said.    
  
Sam heard all of this as he lay half-conscious on the ground.  
  
***  
  
There was little more to say that night; when the storm had dispersed, people made plans to hunt the demons, but they ignored Sam and Dean.  No one, not even Sarah, spoke to them now.  
  
They left before dawn, before it was too late.  Sarah gave them extra food and some whiskey she'd saved; she packed them up like to a funeral and then stood there.  
  
"The demons came from over Locust Ridge, you know.  Your Daddy's place.  What is after you, I have no idea, but you need to go now, and if you find it again, pray to God you have the strength to kill it.  But don’t ever think you're welcome here until it's gone."  Having said her peace, she turned and went inside.  
  
"And even then," Jeremy added.  "Brothers like you need to stay far from here."  He stood watch at the door until they had left his sight.  
  
They made their way over the ridge at daybreak and down the widening valleys to Sevierville to retrieve the coach.  It was a long day's walk but they didn't speak, not to each other or to those they passed.


	10. The Messengers

May 1873 West across Tennessee

All around them, fire was again an enemy – from gaslights to campfires to a simple match flaring. Each could be a way for the fire demon to find them. They watched every flame with dread, sitting far from the lamps in darker areas, cooking nothing. Traveling by day and sleeping off the road in the coach when accommodations were scarce, they went west through Lebanon to Nashville, and as swiftly as the horses would carry them, they put the distance behind them and made for Memphis.

The door they'd opened with their night together by the pond was still wide open, and a demon problem was no match for a year of longing and lust. They slept entwined, or wedged against each other, falling asleep spent - only to wake during the night and find a way to be even closer. 

Sam woke from a dream of his father, angry. The first hint of light caught Dean's face and outlined it in the faintest glow; Sam looked at him until Dean woke up with a jolt shortly after five, as he always did. Now it was Dean who complained about the cramped quarters. He shifted awkwardly, resting a hand on Sam's lap either absently or craftily, it hardly mattered; Sam was ready.

Between the moments of genuine affection and genuine need, there were fights; long, endless fights about sacrifice that ended in draws, until Nashville. 

May 5, 1873 Nashville, Tennessee

"This road..." Sam started, and then left his thought unfinished.

"It's the only road, bumpy or not," Dean replied, steering the horses slightly left and wrenching the wheels up out of the ruts. Sam held on as the coach rocked sideways.

"No, I mean, we're always on the road, Dean – this road, any road. Hunting something or being hunted."

"Now you're sounding like me," Dean said quietly.

"Is this our life?"

"Always trying to get somewhere, but never getting home? Yeah, that's about it. Home burned down. Home has demons in it."

"Why do demons keep chasing us? They all say the same thing – that someone in Hell wants us, bad."

"We have 'WANTED' posters in Hell, maybe?"

"I'm sick of everyone around me dying."

"Are you going to be like this all the way to Memphis?" Dean groaned, but Sam's head was hanging. No sense letting him get worse. "They die around me too, but I don't blame myself for it."

"Where do we go, then?"

 "We go into Hell and get our parents out," Dean said, just to hear it spoken out loud. "They'll never leave us alone – not the demons, not the nightmares, not the visitations."

"They'd never leave us alone in Hell either. Why would you give up your life?"

"Because I can DO something that matters; I can find Dad & Mom."

"No, Dean, I need to do this. I'm the one who needs to atone."

"Atone?"

"I don't see Dad quite as perfectly as I used to, Dean. You were the one with a grudge, but it belongs to me."

"Changed my mind. And what's your grudge? He kept you and abandoned me."

"He thought you were dead – that makes sense. But he lied to me my entire life, deciding what was better for me to know."

"So we summon them. Ask them ourselves."

"No! Dean, that's beyond us. That's not what we do."

"What do we do?"

"We help people."

"Yeah, we helped..." Dean stopped, at a loss for a single example.

 Silence fell as they both searched for a memory of anyone's life they'd improved. The horses trod on as the heat grew and the lush green around them swallowed the noise of their hooves. 

"So going into Hell is an option?" Dean said, testing the waters.

"It must be," Sam said, quietly, his mind working.

"You wanna share that thought?"

"What Mom - that thing that looked like her - said… that we shouldn't make deals or go looking for them… that means it's possible."

    "That doesn't mean we'd survive it!" He found himself arguing Sam's position now, for continued life.

"But we could try, Dean."

***

May 8, 1873 Near the Tennessee - Mississippi border, southeast of Memphis

Out of Nashville, west of the Tennessee River, the road forked three times and they went southwest through Jackson and Somerville toward Memphis, left every time. A bridge washout sent them due south to Wolf River, and they paralleled the shore for several miles. The road was quieter than any of the others, nearly abandoned. The lack of any fellow travelers seemed to sit well with Sam, but not with Dean. 

"Hey, Dean!" Sam called back to Dean in his most suggestive voice. No reply. "Dean?"

"What?" Dean answered, sleepily.

"It's a ponnnd," Sam tried again, stopping the coach.

"You kept me up half the night, gave me a charley horse from all that bending we did, and now you want to swim? That was the hottest thing I've ever done with you, but I still have mud between my toes."

Sam's face sank, and he made sure Dean saw it. 

"Sam, let's just get to Memphis. What are you doing– Sam, it's a public road!"

Sam shucked his clothes in a pile. Dean popped the door open and slid out, landing on both feet in a slick way that Sam envied. Sam's last piece of clothing was a long white shirt that covered his privates. He obligingly lifted it, very slowly, then pulled it off over his head, standing buck naked before Dean. Dean swallowed and looked at the pond.

"Come on, Dean, it's been a long day on the road. Join me."

Dean wanted to be in that pond, in cool water, in strong arms, in a warm body that yielded to his if he insisted. Like nothing else, I want this.

"You can't just go jumping into every pond you see," he said instead. "What if someone comes along?"

"You stay in the water, Dean, that's what you do," Sam answered, puzzled at the hesitation. 

Sam was stiffening as the warm breeze blew against his cock, where Dean's gaze returned with flattering regularity. Dean was ready for just about anything and had been since Sam said "ponnnd" with his Tennessee twang at full strength again.

"We've been together – every night since those demons showed up. Are they causing this?" Dean asked.

"Not from my point of view. I have a very good looking brother."

"Yeah, so do I. You have nice eyes."

Sam chuckled.

"I meant that." Dean said soberly.  

"I know you did. It's just not like you."

 "I feel different. Ready for a change."

Sam stepped forward to kiss him. The horses shook their heads and stared around wild-eyed, skittering their hooves and jolting the carriage forward and toward them. Sam grabbed the halter and tried to calm them, then he and Dean lost their footing as the world tilted and shook. Sam thought the axle had given out from the way the cart slid sideways, nearly toppling as he and Dean were flung sideways to the ground. The pond alongside the road sloshed up and crested, spilling across their path.

They sat in the road for a few seconds, watching the water fizzle its way across the dirt. 

"That wasn't me," Sam said preemptively.

"No, I know it wasn't. It was the ground. Tremors round here are bad news." 

He stood up again and looked past Sam into the curve of the road far ahead. 

"And who's that, walking all the way out here dressed for an evening?"

Sam rolled over and saw the man, about Dean's height, with light hair and skin, dressed in a fine suit that Dean might have worn if he still ran a brothel. He grabbed his pants and slid them up his legs, trying to get them up around his ass without standing up. 

"Sam, I know him," Dean said with a fiercely urgent tone despite his quiet voice. "He disappeared nearly eight years back, in Missouri. Right off the face of the earth, footprints for a hundred yards and then nothing."

"What are we seeing, Dean? A ghost? Another demon?"

"No, Sam, a friend," Dean said warily. "His name's Pendergast."

"What's he doing here? Just a coincidence that we keep seeing people who shouldn't be here?"

"Let me talk to him."

  Dean set out toward the man, who was taking his time sauntering along the road, even though he'd clearly seen Dean, even waved.

***

Sam watched closely; he knew this man had meant something to Dean long ago, an early love. Here, now, he could only be trouble. Dean approached him, hand on the flask of holy water in his coat pocket, ready to uncork and douse anything that wasn't his old friend.

Dean stopped about fifteen feet away. It was Pendergast, no question. He looked good. He was in the same good mood he'd always been in, apart from the last night Dean saw him, when he'd been spooked by something in the woods. 

"Dean!" he said, approaching with hand outstretched.

Dean loosened the cork on the flask and let the water trickle down his hand, then sealed it again, all the while watching his friend's eyes flicking between him and Sam behind him. His hand hung there outstretched, unperturbed. Dean put his own out, slowly, and grabbed Pendergast's large hand in his own, and held tight. 

Pendergast jerked, but Dean held on, and a wince flickered across the man's face. He wrenched his hand free and glared at Dean.

"Quite a grip you have there – must have pinched a nerve, Dean."

"There's more where that came from," Dean said in a tone that found the middle way between welcome and attack.

"You've changed. So much wiser in the ways of the world than when we parted. Found yourself a better man too, I can see."

"What happened to you?" Dean asked, his voice unsteady. He was wavering between believing his eyes or his gut.

"Well, why don't I tell both of you?" Pendergast suggested, walking around Dean toward the coach. 

Sam had dressed, and now looked as suspicious as Dean but oddly barefoot. 

 "And you are?" Pendergast said jovially, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"Sam."  

Leaning in toward Sam, he said confidentially, "You've got a winner, you know," then turned his head back to Dean, who'd closed the gap in quick strides.

"Sam, this is…Andrew Pendergast. He was a colleague."

"Yes… was, Dean. I'm sorry if my leaving hurt you, but there was no future for us, not in Jennison's gang. Rumors of my death, however," he said, turning back to Sam, "were not entirely untrue."

Sam saw him blink in the midday sun, and from one moment to the next, his eyes were a shiny black. 

"Dean!" Sam shouted, but Dean had seen it too, and flung the holy water across the demon's face.

 "You idiots! STOP IT!" he bellowed, wiping the burning liquid from his face. "Don't kill the messenger – I haven't even told you the best part." 

They tied him up, to surprisingly little resistance.

***

"Talk. Now," Dean said coldly.

"You're a hot property. I came to negotiate. Rumor is, this is bigger than Yellow Eyes, bigger than the angels' 'collaboration' even."

"This is exactly what Mom warned against."

Pendergast looked interested, suddenly, in Sam.   "Isn't Mommy dead? Haven't had the pleasure yet, but I was only down there for a few hundred years."

Dean struck him hard on the chin with the palm of his hand.

"Sonofabitch! I taught you thah punch. Broke my toof-. Fuck the both of you!" the demon swore, his eyes all black again.

"YOU taught me nothing," Dean said. "Talk, demon, or we start the exorcism."

"I'm not possessed, you moron. This is me. Your old buddy." He was smiling crookedly, blood on his teeth. "They let me keep the body," he said proudly.

Dean was two seconds from killing him. Sam put a hand on Dean's chest and held him there until it passed.   "Ignore him," he said softly. "He likes your reaction."

"I think my offer might get a warmer reception than little old me," Pendergast said, still smiling bloodily.

"Make it," said Sam.

"One of you can make the Grand Tour of Hell, so decide now which one of you it is. You get in, you get out – after your rescue mission – no strings."

"That's not a deal. Demons don't make deals like that."  

"My boss does. He's a generous sort. Let me keep this meat, remember? After it was burned away a thousand times, I got it as a souvenir."

"You're lying," was Dean's only response. He looked sick, refused to make eye contact with the thing that had been his closest friend.

"No, Dean, I'm not. But there's more to the deal, so tell me who's going in."

"I am," said Dean. 

  "DEAN, NO! Don't say anything."

  "Sorry, Sammy, but he already did. Don't worry, I'm just making an offer. We can sort out the details later."

  "Dean!" Sam's hand hadn't left Dean's chest, and he felt the rapid heartbeat, the angry shallow breathing.

"Sam, later. What's the rest?"

"You get to save Mom. Or Dad." He toyed with each word.

"Or?" Sam asked, not wanting to consider the choice.

"Or. But to make it sporting, you get to pick."

"You bastard." Dean swung wildly, nearly breaking the demon's jaw. Pendergast took it in stride, smiling again.

"Stop, Dean." Sam's hand was grasping at his shirt now, twisting it. "Later, like you said." 

"And… you have until June 23rd."

"Six weeks?" Sam asked.

"Bonfire Day," Dean realized, ashen. 

He turned and walked away, down the road a little, stopping by the pond.

"Of course, you could go into Hell instead, Sam. Nothing's written in blood yet." 

"Why you?"

"Because the boss understands pain."

"You can't hurt me," Sam said coldly.

The demon thought calmly for a moment, looking at Sam.

"Your mother is a husk. The boss left her a tiny thread of humanity, but not anything you'd recognize. Personally, I'd let her go. She's a lost cause. Now Dean, he won't agree. He'll want to save Daddy, I think. He had so many things he wanted to do to John – all very violent."

Sam grabbed him by the throat and squeezed his fingers tight. Dean turned back, watched them talking, and was gratified to see Sam choke the living crap out of the man he'd loved once, before Sam, before anyone else. Sam said something and the demon nodded, smiling and compliant, as Sam's hands fell from his neck. 

"Dean, will you untie me before your brother takes out any more of his…urges on me? I'm getting tired of this."  

"And how about we kill you now," Dean said, dead serious.

Pendergast thought for a moment, unconcerned, and then shrugged. "You'd need something a bit more powerful than the litany you used on that poor bastard in Belleville. You watch out for the wife – she's got a price on your heads. And she wants this coach back; I can't say as I blame her." 

"I say we at least try an exorcism or two," Sam said, as serious as Dean.

"Well then, I'll be going. You work on a better knot, boy scout," he said to Sam, and walked away from the coach, unrestrained. At six feet, he turned, as if rounding a corner, and was gone.

"What the hell!" Dean blurted, gaping.

"I didn't know they could do that, either," said Sam, astonished.

"If I pulled you out of some lore book before you got to that page, I sincerely apologize," said Dean. "And why does it have to be Hell?! Why can't we go into Purgatory?"

"You knew him how well?"

  "He was nicer back then."

"What makes you think you'll survive Hell any better than me? Or him?" Sam asked.

"I have a sense of humor?"

***

May 8, 1873 – Memphis, Tennessee

The sun was low when they reached the outskirts of Memphis, and Malachi was not at home. Sam left a card on Malachi's door, with their address in code. They found a low-profile place to stay. Dean insisted on enjoying the town, now that they were back in a real city, not the remote hills of the east. When they got back from dinner, Malachi was waiting for them. He entered the rented room with them, wondering at their sudden wealth.

"Where did you go?" were the first words out of Dean's mouth. 

"I had things to attend to. As did you, apparently. I hear you were out in the hills by Locust Ridge." 

"I'm impressed at this hunter network you talk with. Do you all have telegraphs in your homes?"

  "Tell him, Dean," Sam urged.  

"Which part, Sam? Yours, mine, or ours? Or yesterday?"  

"From the beginning, Dean," Malachi said sternly, settling on a chair in the room they'd taken. "I told you boys to lay low."

"They came to us!" Dean protested.

He related his experience with John and let Sam share his story of Mary in the forest. Malachi listened intently, nodding, so his response surprised them.

"You saw them die, both of you. Why are you even wondering if they're alive?"

"Because I saw our mother," Sam said sincerely.

  "Whom you've never met."

"It was her."

"I have no doubt that the demon told you that; I can read it on your face that you accept it. But that has nothing to do with the demon telling you the truth."

"Well…" Dean began.

 "All the more reason not to believe what it says!" he continued over Dean's rationalizing. "Demons play with humans. They only want to damn you. I have no idea why one of them told you not to come after your parents' souls, but you cannot go into Hell. I can't believe you think a demon could ever tell the truth."

"The one in Salina told the truth about other things."

Malachi was silent for a moment, judging their faces.

"That was not a demon."

 "Not like any we've seen," Dean said.

"How do you know what it is?" Sam asked, growing frustrated. "We haven't found a word about it."

"I can't believe it's here." Malachi muttered, distracted.

"Our family was destroyed by that thing! Can you explain that?" Dean demanded.

"Your family was destroyed by something that you can't even imagine. You're lucky to be alive, beyond lucky, and I don't know how you've managed it so far, as foolish as you both are." Malachi was a different man, breathless. "But you can't go around collecting demon bounties on your head and following visions. Your souls won't survive what's to come. Family is not all there is."

  "It's all we have left," said Sam, growing angrier by the minute.

 "It's the least important thing," Malachi replied. "What you fought in Salina is our real enemy."

Dean interrupted. "Look, Malachi, I'm not sure you're helping us. We have … things visiting us, first as my Dad, telling me to come get him in Hell, then as Mom, telling Sam to keep far away from demons and let her rot. And then we get a message from a bona fide demon saying we're cordially invited to pay Satan a visit." 

He recounted the offer Pendergast made, to Malachi's evident horror. Malachi closed his eyes slowly when Dean had finished and sat rocking slowly for a moment, as if gathering strength.

"You MUST NOT GO!!" he raged at them, louder and larger than Sam thought possible.

The humble man who had been perched on the edge of his chair was now standing taller than before; the room was brighter, casting his features in a strange light that seemed to alter him. He shook with rage, and a deafening hum filled the room, shaking the windows until they blew apart. Sam and Dean stumbled back, covering their ears and squinting to shut out the brilliant light.

***

What they thought they saw was not possible, not even after the black smoke and black eyes of demons, or the vast hatred of the fire demon that had attacked them in Salina.

"OR ALL IS LOST!!" echoed in their minds as they made their way down the staircase, ears ringing and half-blind. They regrouped outside the back door, where terrified neighbors approached in a panic. 

"I thought he'd never leave, your little guardian. He's hardly much higher in rank than I am, allowing for what they consider worthwhile."

"Pendergast." Dean stared at him, eyes focusing better now. 

Sam had knelt on the ground, his head split with pain that lingered.

"What just happened, Dean?" Sam asked hazily.

"You two can sort that all out later. It will be a moment I'm sorry to miss but I just need to lay out some details, make a few final arrangements. So, Dean, you're coming with?" 

"Are we doing this now?" Dean asked, irritated.

  "Well, we can always wait, but I am hoping for the traditional kiss. You have until June 23, as I said, to get yourselves to Sikeston, Missouri. It's on the maps; look for it. There used to be a town called Winchester just near there. It failed." He was gloating, and Sam had had enough.

"Leave us alone. We'll come when we're ready," Sam said, pulling himself to his feet with Dean's arm giving support. Pendergast was gone when he opened his eyes again.

 "We can do this," Dean said, confidence fading rapidly. 

"Better get our stuff out of there. We'll be needing some new aliases and a new place to sleep."

"Can you charm the neighbors away?" Dean asked.

"I'll go get the bags. Your charm's back up to full strength."

***

May 18, 1873

They'd taken up residence at Malachi's house, but Malachi didn't return, and not even a hunting job Sam heard of held any real interest for them. They took it, hunting down a ghost's remains to salt and burn them. It didn't go well.

The arguments that followed over the next few weeks did not engage them; they were familiar in a way that made them necessary, but unconvincing. Dean was wrong and he knew it; Sam was right and he knew it, but still they argued.

Among the repeated "You have to NOT do this, Dean!" and "Our parents can be saved – if I get one, I can get both!" was the interesting unknown: Hell. It terrified Dean, but the thought of his mother alone there was worse than his own fears of what lay ahead. It terrified Sam too, because it fit his belief that he brought death to anyone he loved. Rescue could mean redemption.

The other constant in the weeks after Malachi and Pendergast disappeared was an emotional series of fights that started with "I can't lose you!" and ended, every time, with a fierce embrace. They even had a photographer take their portrait, which ate up a lot of their remaining cash. It was Sam's idea but Dean agreed instantly, then changed his mind as the photographer set up the shot.

"You know what I look like. You're not gonna be left alone."

"Be still, Dean." Dean hadn't even moved, but he slumped a little. Sam's face was serious, even pained.

"I think my hair needs more of that tonic," Dean complained.

"You're fine. The hat covers it," Sam replied. 

Sam had his right arm around Dean's shoulder, his left hand on the back of a large wing chair. Dean was encircled in that embrace, enjoying the warmth it exuded. For a moment, going into Hell was the most insane, improbable idea, and Dean smiled. Then he thought of not getting back, his face changed, and the photographer lifted the lens cap. 

"Don't move a whisker!" he said cheerfully. "Just count to ten."

How'll he react when the demon comes for me?

"Now, Mr. Butler, Mr. Cooper, if you'd just leave an address here, I'll contact you both when the prints have been prepared."

***

June 2, 1873

They felt the calendar slipping away, and without Malachi's help or Pendergast's threats to spur them, they felt powerless, as if the world had forgotten them entirely. Dean spent a long time with Malachi's small library, but much of it was written in languages he didn't recognize, or codes he couldn't crack. The question hung in the air until Dean couldn't take it any more.

"I think he owes us a long explanation for whatever that little stunt of his was," Dean said, and Sam was forced to agree.

"Do you think he's-"

"-I saw wings," Dean interrupted. "Damned if I know how that's possible, but I saw 'em."

Day after day, Sam, too, pored over the books, unable to make sense of the handwriting or when it was in a language he knew, of the meaning behind the allegories. One book spoke of a heresy that had spread among the "family of Heaven," but what the heresy was, he couldn't tell. The book referred to it only once as a 'recurrence', which it then denounced strenuously. 

The volume Dean was examining bore an indecipherable publishing mark, but the label inside the back cover caught his eye – Florissant Parish, written over with a scrawled signature that he knew was Kearney's.

Why is our life so weird?" Dean asked and Sam laughed in response. "What's so funny?"

"You asked me that before, Dean, why my life was so weird. Now it's your life too."

"Yeah, thanks for sharing everything."

"What are brothers for?" Sam said weakly.

"How about for having dinner with? Come on, Sammy, we're going to enjoy the town. I found a club here last time, with that blind singer. And there's a brothel just down the street – very respectable place run by a Miss Susie."

  "Dean, there are at least four more shelves in the back room."

  "Yes. Malachi, whatever he is, has no bed but a vast library. If I hadn't bought us a bed, we'd be propped up on his ancient collection, carrying out what are no doubt blasphemous acts among his collection of supernatural tomes, and who knows, that might be what sets them off." He paused, judging Sam's expression. "Come on, Sam, take a break. Live a little."  

The sound in his voice was enthusiasm, genuinely, over a very sad and stoic acceptance of what lay ahead. He wondered sometimes that Sam didn't seem as upset.

"Okay, Dean. A night on the town. If anyone can show me a good turn around Memphis, it's you."  

"That's more like it!" Dean said, breaking into a broad grin. "There's a benefit at the club tonight for the victims of the cholera epidemic."

Sam stared at the man he called his friend and his lover, and wondered at their sanity.

***

The club where "Blind" Abelia performed looked different from the last time; more tables had been squeezed in, for one thing, and the crowd was well over capacity. An usher recognized Dean and retrieved VIP tickets from the office. 

"She put these aside just for you," he said, leading a surprised Sam and Dean to a small table near the stage.

"She comes in from the back," Dean whispered in Sam's ear, and Sam turned to see the graceful woman wending her way through the crowd, waving to all, never once slowed down by the ribbons covering her eyes and mouth. The ribbons were black tonight with gold thread in them.

Abelia slowed as she approached their table, taking in Dean, dressed like his old self for the first time since Salina in clean, fitted clothing, new boots, and a bold vest under his dark grey coat. He'd bought Sam an outfit that was many times grander than Sam felt, or had ever looked, all dark brown with a white shirt that showed at the cuffs and collar and a deep red vest. Sam's pants, Dean had remarked twice already, fit him well. 

Sam had the distinct impression, despite the singer's blindfold, that he, too, was being examined, head to toe. Her expression, as much as was visible, seemed expectant, even curious, but the cheers drew her toward the stage, where she sang song after song to the crowd's evident delight and gratitude. No odd thoughts disturbed Dean this time, but Sam felt her eyes on him, constantly.

She left the stage and Dean was visibly disappointed that she hadn't joined them. 

"Follow me," Sam said, leading Dean backstage.

***

Dean knocked on Abelia's dressing room door and she replied, "Come in Dean. Bring Samuel with you."

Sam's eyes widened.

"I didn't tell her your name," Dean swore as they entered. "She sees everything, she says. Probably hears everything too."

She was standing in front of her mirror, ribbons gone, eyes wide open.

"I'm glad you came tonight," she said, watching them both carefully with an expression that bordered on rage. "It saved me the trouble of dragging you down to the river in public and dunking your heads for being so colossally stupid."

  They had no response.

"You're very close to making the biggest mistake a person can make," she warned.

"Can you be a little more specific?" Dean asked.

"I don't know why I didn't see it before – the fires, the attack in Salina; he knows who you are and he's got some kind of plan in the works. And he was banished – only you two could have stopped him."

"Um, I beg your pardon, but what are you talking about?" Sam asked with all the innocence and charm he could muster. 

Even his night out with Dean was going to be ruined by the supernatural, and he wasn't pleased.

***

The only question that danced around Dean's head during the torrent of "ancient times" and "promises" and "brothers" that filled the next minute or so was also the first one that popped rudely out of Sam's mouth.  

"What the hell are you?" The look on his face was incredulous, even annoyed.

"Let me ask you who you are, Samuel Winchester. And Dean, your brother. Are you even aware?"

Dean looked at Sam and back at Abelia, nonplussed.

"No matter," she said. "Tell me how you stopped him."

"It was a spell," Sam said, calm despite the circumstances.

"Sam!"

"An old spell, 'there came two angels'…"  

"Stop it!" she said abruptly.

Her face took on the curiosity Sam had seen before. 

 "It is you," she said softly. "You both spoke those words, am I right?"

  "Yeah, and could you answer his question?" Dean asked rudely.

"Answer mine first, Dean. Why didn’t you listen to your brother when he saw Mary? Why did you trust the father who abandoned you over your own brother? And take a moment to think about it because you're going to be asked that a lot."

She had stared him back against a wall and he didn't dare challenge her. He thought for a long time under her gaze, looking at Sam a couple of times. His voice was softer when he answered.

"Because our father didn't know everything; he did what he thought would be best for us. I understand that now."

She waited, scrutinizing him.

"And because Sam didn't know Mom; he could have been fooled."  

"Dean, I knew it wasn't her," Sam interjected.

"So when a demon tells you to do one thing and something else tells you the smart, sensible thing to do, you choose-"  

"To save our family, yes," Dean said proudly, his frustration rising again.

"You can't play into his plans, Dean. There is more at stake here than your mother and father's souls. You've been discovered. It's all at risk now, and you're ready to walk right into Hell of your own free will. You'll end it, all of it. You of all people can't give up and let them kill you."

"Answer his question now. What are you?" demanded Sam, increasingly angry at her tone, whatever she might be.

"You look human to me," Dean said.

"She's a lot like you, Dean."

"I've been called far worse," she replied calmly. "There are demons and angels. You've met both now. But there are other things much older. Much more powerful. The time is almost past when you would have been safe. But brothers are a weak point for all of us." Her eyes wavered then, for a moment, breaking contact.

"All of us who? We seem to be surrounded by higher beings who don't tell us what we need to know to survive," Sam continued.

"You MUST stay out of Hell! Both of you. And by your own free choice, thank God for that little creation," she added bitterly. "If you go in, even once, even for a second, God has lost," she said, looking back and forth between them. "I don't know what Az has planned, but I can guess." 

"Sam, let's go. I'm tired of these things talking to us like we're cattle."

  "Sheep," Sam corrected quietly.

"Shut up," replied Dean, storming out the door.

"Wait," was all she said, but Sam felt a power behind it, not guile but pain, not manipulation but loss, freezing him immobile. "He'll do anything for you. Don't let him!"

Sam followed Dean out the door and up the stairs to the driving rain of the thunderstorm looming over Memphis.

***

June 14, 1873

 Pendergast returned over a week later, but Malachi never did. The demon was waiting at a busy intersection on Front Street. He asked them one more time who was coming, and Dean blurted out his answer before Sam could say anything. 

"Let me ask you again," he said. "Separately," he added, and took Sam aside, hand across his back, to a spot a good fifteen feet away. Dean could only read Sam's lips, but everything he said looked like "No."

Pendergast returned with Sam.

"Sam?" Dean said, looking at Sam's face for some clue.  

"June 23rd, south of Sikeston, Dean tied to the post ready for pickup. Those are my orders," the demon said, with feigned concern. "Go in, free – your mother, was it? – and back out. That's the deal."

"Your efficiency amazes me," Dean grumbled.

"Dean, we can still say no. We can walk away."

Dean thought it over, without looking at Sam, not daring to meet his eyes.

"Why you?" Dean asked the demon.

"Why me? Because you knew me when I was human. I could have died that night in the forest, ripped apart by a werewolf. It was either stay that way or live forever, and Corseby made me an offer. I saved your life, Dean; that's why you trust me. And because you loved me. You did – before this big guy came along. I'm the only one who can save you." 

"Dean,…"

Sam was looking at him, more like their father every day, aging too fast. 

The demon continued, "and because if you even try to free John? Deal's off - you all die. John belongs to us, free and clear."

"Dean, think about what we're promising," Sam said, his face twisting in sadness, no matter how hard he tried to keep it expressionless. "It's Dad."

Pendergast looked at Sam like he was a dog peeing on the carpet.


	11. At a Crossing of Roads

_June 20, 1873   Reelfoot Lake, Tennessee_  
  
The wind was rising behind them, warm, pushing them northward.  They were quiet, but the lazy argument continued on – would their plan work, or would it fail?  Malachi's disappearance lay there, the untouched conversation, until Sam picked at it again.    
  
"I guess Malachi was more than a hunter."  
  
"Your book-learning teach you that, Sam?  Or your eyes?"  
  
"Angels are supposed to be terrible beings of blinding light that men can't behold."    
  
"They came to people all the time in the Bible, Sam.  And obviously they can keep it quiet, fit in.  Maybe they take a human shape like demons do.   
  
"I don't know, Dean, I'll look into it when I get back to Memphis."  
  
Dean bit the inside of his mouth and stared into the distance, his brow drawn tight.  
  
"Give me the reins," he said calmly.  
  
"I'll drive, Dean, you relax."    
  
"I will drive my own road, Sam, now give me the reins."    
  
His voice hadn't changed, not a hint of anger, just a hand out and his eyes steady on the reins Sam held.  
  
***  
  
Halfway to death, up the floodplain toward the ferry at Hickman, they hit Reelfoot Lake and the road split.    
  
"Left – death, right – death."  
  
"Dean, stop it."  
  
"Left or right?"   
  
"Go left."  
  
Right took them along the fringes of the lake, past Samburg as the evening sun finally set and the town settled quietly in the dark. A few hundred feet later, a battered road sign pointed out Hogshill Road, a tiny dirt track that might be overlooked, notwithstanding the large hand-painted sign for tarot readings on the roadside that beckoned in forlorn and faded glory.  
  
They found one house back in Samburg with a room to spare, caught the tail end of the man's dinner before he threw the extra out to his hogs, and complimented him on his cooking.  The man grunted, neither a thank you nor a sneer, but he seemed to enjoy the company.    
  
"You head out tomorrow morning," he advised, "you go quick past the next two roads and don't even look.  There's a crazy woman up Hogshill you want to forget right out.   
  
"Who is she?" Sam asked.  
  
"Came here after the 1821 quakes.  Her so-called readings are no use at all. They say she was better when she were young, but I doubt it. Kept talking nonsense and folks stopped going.  And if you see a cat, you look the other way, or kick it back to her."    
  
Thank you for that," Sam said politely, giving Dean an odd glance.  Dean was pushing a huge piece of cobbler into his mouth.    
  
"Leave some for the hogs, son," chuckled the man.  "You'll eat again."  
  
***  
  
 _June 21, 1873_  
  
In truth the woman was not crazy through any fault of her own.  If she had even noticed it, she would have maintained it was her voices' fault, and the cards she hand-painted from images in her mind. After her new deck was complete, she became more interested in reading to answer her own questions. The cards had shown her things no one should see, and it worried her, but the cats made her loneliness much more bearable.   
  
"The Mysteries of Time and Space, Revealed Unto You by the Amazing Taj" Sam read from the sign the next morning.  It was hot at sunup and growing stickier by the minute.  
  
"The Amazing Taj?" asked Dean, unimpressed.    
  
"We need to know, Dean."  
  
They knocked at her door, once they found her cabin amid heaps of junk and fallen trees.  No reply came, so they knocked again. A muttering voice inside kept saying "cannot be cannot be" until finally the door handle turned slowly.  
  
They gaped at a disheveled mess, and at the room behind her, likewise unattended.  Several cats could be seen on the furniture.  
  
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!"  She burst into tears and slammed the door shut, then opened it again a foot or so, and repeated this twice as Sam and Dean stepped back slightly in fear.    
  
"You're real! You're here!" she said finally.  "I never thought I'd see you in person!  So very valuable, so very, very lost."  
  
They watched her for signs of demonic possession but there was nothing overt.  She seemed more afraid of them, but was surveying them, up and down, left, right, and left again.  
  
"We… need a question or two-"  
      
"or ten" interrupted Dean  
  
"-answered, if you have the time," Sam said.  
  
"Oh the honor!  Yes, I can, I can do it.  I can give you some answers, and more.  Come inside!" she said, grabbing their arms and pulling them across the threshold vigorously.    
  
She was easily over seventy, Sam noted, and rail thin.  She appeared dressed for a grand occasion – for guests, no doubt – but hadn't tended to her home in a very long time.  The stench hit Dean in the nose and lungs almost simultaneously and he choked, spluttering.  Sam's eyes were watering –  he winced and tried to wipe them discreetly.  Dean was in tears now too from the ammonia fumes as seven, eight, or ten cats appeared in the room; he lost count.  Taj bolted her door against "intruders," effectively trapping them without air.  
  
"This must be what hell smells like," Dean choked out.  
  
"Oh, you shine in this dim room, you do," she said to Sam.  Sam recognized the word from when he was a restless teen listening to an old woman's tales of child-killing witches.  
  
"The Widow said that about me, when I was a kid," he whispered to Dean.  
  
"Must be how the demons keep finding us," Dean replied, retching silently as the smell seeped into him without permission.  
  
"So do you, dear, if that makes you feel any better," the old woman added.  
  
"It doesn't," Dean said softly, trying to conserve air.  
  
"Come now…" she said, leading them to a cramped back room where her tarot cards lay scattered, clearly handmade but each intricately drawn and colored.  "Sit, sit."  
  
Sam looked at the cards from where he stood.  The lines were angular, "off kilter", an effect not at all pleasant to the eye.  The figures were oddly realistic for an untrained artist like her, but also vague and impermanent.  They seemed different from different angles and different again when she closed the window shade and lit a candle on the table.  
  
Dean felt a headache coming on fast. Sam held his handkerchief by his nose and mouth, and was apparently doing better.    
  
"Now which are you?" she asked, taking Sam's hands.  
  
"I'm Samuel Winchester."  
  
"Of course, and your name is -"  
  
"My name's Dean.  Dean Winchester."  
  
"Brothers, I just knew it."  
  
It hit Sam, tore his heart a little that Dean was taking on that name, then and there. He never took his eyes off Dean.  This was something to talk about – having a brother, a giant step closer just like that.  _Absolutely, spontaneously Dean._  
  
Sam rested his hand on the back of Dean's hand.   
  
"I'm slow like that," Dean murmured, looking at the floor.   
  
With their eyes already watering, any embarrassing tears were accounted for.    
  
"Would you stop staring, Sam?" Dean whispered.  "We can talk about it later.  Not a big deal, okay?"   
  
Sam gave him a huge lopsided grin.  
  
"I will do a joint reading, since you have the same questions," she went on, ignoring their small moment.  "You still have to ask, the both of you.  Rules are rules."  
  
Dean looked at Sam, puzzled.  
  
"Will you tell us what we face?" Sam asked.  
  
"Yes, I will."    
  
She looked at Dean and waited.  Sam looked at him too, tipped his head to say 'go on'.  
  
"Yeah, and how do we survive?" Dean added.  
  
"These things I can tell you, with my cards.  I made them, sixty years ago, when I was young and beautiful.  They've been talking to me so long now; I can help them talk to you too."  
  
Dean looked at the deck as if it would speak to him then and there, then back at Taj.  
  
"Each of you take and shuffle half.  Then exchange your cards and shuffle again.  Place them back here, Dean first, on the bottom."  
  
***  
  
The fumes began scratching on Sam's throat and he coughed, repeatedly.  Cats wandered through regularly, much to Dean's dismay, watching them at the table as they passed.  
  
Taj turned over three cards slowly, pausing to consider each, as Sam and Dean each sank into their own thoughts of what was coming.  
  
"Two of Coins."  
  
"Those are the two coins we won't have left to rub together after we pay her," Dean muttered.  
  
Sam was quiet.  The figure on the card carried the two coins in an infinite loop, which Sam's eye followed around one way a few times and then back the other way.  The coins seemed to roll freely in either direction.  
  
"The Devil."  
  
Sam started, sat up suddenly and then leaned forward to look closely at the card; Dean watched Taj's face intently.  She seemed unmoved by the image.    
  
"No, no, not demons," she said, more to herself than to them.  
  
Sam stared at her, his eyes wide.  She turned the third card over.  
  
"Tricks upon tricks.  That's … over both of you, over all of this."    
  
On the table she placed a card that depicted a figure neither clearly a man nor clearly a woman.  The eyes were still barely visible and the mouth showed vaguely through heavy layers of black that decorated the face in broad stripes.  The card seemed filled with other figures too, tracery outlines barely visible but filling the entire card.  The more Dean looked, the more figures he saw.  An object with a distorted face lay in the hand of the main figure, and Dean recognized both at once, Abelia and the amulet Molly had given him, that Sam had later retrieved from the fire.  
  
His head swam and he heard voices somewhere in the room.  
  
"Look at her," Sam said, worried, snapping Dean back to himself.  
  
Taj had bent over, head on the table, eyes pinched tightly.  She moaned softly, then sat up slowly, rubbing her forehead.  
  
"Leave, one of you.  I can't do this.  It's too much."    
  
They looked at each other.  
  
"I'll go," said Sam.  Dean's panicked face was enough to make him add, "You'll be fine, Dean.  Tarot isn't demonic.  Just don't give her too much to go on."  
  
When Sam had stepped into the other room, where he stood watching carefully around the doorframe, Dean returned his attention to Taj, who was now a bit more energetic.    
  
She laid out cards that were "his", she explained.    
  
"Four of Coins"   
  
"Did you just double your fee?"  
  
"You grasp tightly to worldly things."  
  
"I value my life, yes."  
  
"It also indicates self-centeredness."  
  
"It's more accurate than I thought," Dean said dryly.  
  
"Seven of Wands. Challenges."  
  
"Every day of my life is a challenge."  
  
"You don't need to comment," she said.  
  
Dean opened his mouth, then closed it.  
  
"Nine of Swords.  Oh no."  Her voice revealed pity contrasting with the fear in her face.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I hope you know your nightmares well.  They're coming."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
She was paler now, even in the candlelight.  
  
"I'm tired of these baby cards.  Where's a face card?" Dean asked, frustrated.    
  
"It doesn't work like that, Dean.  Every card speaks its own message.  The nine says despair."  
  
"If I’m paying four coins, then I'd like a face card.  I know Tarot decks have them."  
  
She turned over Strength.  
  
"That's more like it!  I'll stand.  Or is that 21?" he joked.   
  
"Remember where your strength comes from."  
  
She looked at him, her eyes sunk in dark circles he'd thought were just shadows but now seemed permanent and deep.  
  
 _Is that pity?_  
  
"Send in Samuel."  
  
"SAM!"  
  
She winced at his voice, and Sam came rushing in.  He looked at the cards, but they meant nothing to him.  
  
"Your turn," Dean said.  "I'm going to get some fresh air."    
  
"You should stay inside.  The smell's almost not registering now.  If you go outside, you'll have to start all over again."  
  
Dean coughed and went out to the main room.  
  
Taj, who had been watching Sam, said, "Sit, Samuel."    
  
She gathered herself and took a deep breath, her thin arms trembling slightly.  Laying out a second row below Dean's, she turned over The Lovers.   
  
"Reversed.  So it's true…" she whispered to herself.    
  
Sam blushed and looked uncomfortable in the small chair he barely fit into.   
  
"That follows from his Strength.  And next,…."  She turned over The Tower, also reversed.  
  
Sam leaned in; the image was compelling but mysterious. The top half of the tower vanished amid clouds and lightning that resembled the demon storm they'd seen in Zion Grove.   
  
"Ego, failure, revelation.  Life correcting itself.  Hell.  Of course…"   
  
She trailed off, leaving Sam more confused than before, and turned over The Magician, a third card in reverse.  To her eyes, there was a resemblance between the young men.  She looked up at Sam.    
  
He saw only an odd figure, hands and feet red with the richly colored soil he stood on, two streaks of red across his face.  In the background were figures he couldn't count; they seemed to be shifting and multiplying, one within another.  
  
"Your final card is – Strength!"   Taj looked at the other Strength card lying directly above the one she'd just placed.    
  
"That's not possible," she mumbled.  
  
"What?" Sam asked.      
  
"There's only one," she said uneasily, pointing at the card but not touching it.    
  
"You must have mixed your decks."  
  
"No, I couldn't have, I didn't-…  It's all been so odd lately, with the cards.  Need to eat more, Miss Yancey told me last week, as we stood in the yard watching the wood beetles eat into the house."  
  
 _How did I overlook the madness in her?_  
  
"Sam?  We'll miss the ferry if we stay any longer.  Is she done?" asked Dean from the doorway.  
  
"She's done, but we don't have an answer.  What are we facing?" Sam asked her more forcefully.  
  
"You're facing yourselves, first.  Then something much worse.  Your lives are changing forever.  Soon."  
  
"Well that's pretty damn vague-" said Dean, from the door.  
  
"Dean, Samuel – you have no choice but to go forward.  You must pay the cost.  It's too late now."  
  
"What the hell does that mean?"  Dean asked, moving toward the table.  
  
Taj had stood up slowly when Sam demanded an answer, but sunk back now, even paler.  She ran her hands from the Devil to the card she'd called Tricks, which sat at the center, to the Magician in the bottom row.  She refused to touch the second Strength card now.  Dean's self-centeredness, challenge and disaster were arrayed for him to see, and below that, Sam's four major cards.  
  
"You got all the good cards" said Dean, then looked closer at The Lovers.  "What does that first one mean?"  
  
"It's not literal," Sam said quietly.  
  
"Good to know.  Still, Towers and Magicians and Strength?  Well, we got one card the same."  
  
"Dean…" Sam was worried about that duplicate as much as anything else.  "That's not supposed to happen."  
  
"Sam, I'm woozy from the fumes in here.  It's no wonder she sees things in the cards, with the amount of cat piss flowing.  Are we done?"  
  
"Let's go," Sam said quietly.  He seemed sad.    Taj was staring at the cards, running her hands across all of them, over and over, except for the final Strength card, which was not supposed to be there.    
  
"I'm so sorry," she said, not looking up.  "The road will be nothing like you expected."   
  
Dean gave her one last withering look, then pushed Sam out the door.  
  
Her cats complained loud and long before she poured them saucers of milk, partly curdled in the heat.  She gathered and reshuffled the deck as the noonday sun shone down and the heat grew in her cabin.  The cards were speaking again, the figures more animated and talkative than they ever were around strangers.  
  
***  
  
"Well, she was insane, Sam. Did you hear about my doom?  My nightmares are coming!"  
  
"What does that mean?"    
  
"Well, let's hope it doesn't mean the one where I'm on the balcony of the club in Salina and I forgot to put my pants on."  
  
Sam suppressed a snort.  
  
"She never said we'd die," Sam said after moment.  "Maybe she does know what's going to happen.  Maybe it's bad and then it gets better?"  
  
"She didn't even know which of us is going into Hell tomorrow.  I wouldn't trust her to pick penny stocks, Sam."  
  
Around them, the land flattened out as they approached the Mississippi, a wide, shimmering band ahead.  Clouds were already up high, towering in the southwest but keeping to themselves.  The flatness on the other side was at first a welcome relief from the heaving, bone-shaking drenching they took on the simple ferry across the Mississippi to Dorena.  
  
After a few miles, though, the overly hot summer, the dust, and the absence of any life at all had them alert for danger. The horizon receded in all directions, leaving them open and exposed.  Dean had grown up in a place without much terrain and texture, and yet this expanse unnerved him.  Sam, mountain-bred, was on edge.  
  
***  
  
 _June 22, 1873  Sikeston, Missouri_  
  
By the time they reached Sikeston, the mood of lighthearted courage had faded entirely.  They stabled the horses in town and put the coach in a shed using what money Dean had left on him.  They asked about accommodation and were pointed to a road south out of town.    
  
Dean took off his amulet as they walked. He looked at the horned, grimacing creature and recalled the face he'd seen on the tarot card. Sam watched, alarmed by this gesture, reminded that the hours were counting down.  
  
"Is there a card in the tarot deck called 'Tricks'?" Dean asked.  
  
"No, Dean.  Who knows what she was doing?  She made that deck herself."  
  
"What if she had a little help?"  
  
"From where?  Not demons."  
  
"Something else then.  Here, take good care of this," Dean said, in the same neutral, emotionless tone he'd been using since Memphis, most often when Sam felt emotion was called for.    
  
Sam looked at the ugly thing, knowing what it meant to Dean, but not entirely happy to have care of it.   
  
"Thank you? What's the story with this?" he asked.  "I just assumed it was part of your colorful personality."  
  
"Molly gave it to me, said it came from her father.  You found it again after the fire."    
  
"I remember."    
  
"Keep it safe."    
  
***  
  
Sikeston had only one place with rooms free and it wasn't grand, or even average.  It was a guest cottage, hot and cramped like the one behind Mrs. Tyler's in Salina, but unlike Mrs. Tyler's, filthy.  
  
The man who rented it to them had barely turned away to mutter "Hillfolk, by their accents," when Dean closed the door and slammed Sam up against it, finding his way into his mouth, under his shirt and down his trousers all at once.  Sam held up under the assault, then gradually turned it back on Dean, peeling Dean's shirt from the skin glistening underneath.    
  
"You wanna?" Sam exhaled, barely even a whisper.  
  
"Yeah," Dean said, breathless as he looked into Sam's eyes.  
  
Sam tipped Dean up onto a low dresser, level with him now, and stared back at him with a look that passed all restraint.  Sam leaned into the kiss, pushing Dean back against the wall as he put his hands on Dean's thighs and slid them up.  He'd been waiting all day for this, and dreading it.  
  
"I can't believe I found you," Sam whispered, stroking Dean through his pants and unbuttoning his own at the same time. It was Dean who held back, pressing Sam's hand down to stop the rubbing that blocked all logical thought, getting his feet on the floor again.  
  
"Sam, this… all this -- I want it, God knows I do, but I feel like I'm on sacred ground now when I touch you.  Wrong, right, I can't even tell sometimes, but …damn, I'm not good with words."  
  
He'd distracted Sam long enough to loop his leg around Sam's and make him stumble backward when he pushed.  He caught Sam's arm and lowered him to the bed, drops of sweat rolling down his back in the growing heat.  
  
Sam had his pants open and halfway down when they heard the farmer coming back, swearing.  He was carrying a bucket of water for them, cursing the heat.  
  
"For in case you get too hot in there," he said, handing it to Dean, who was smiling gamely around the edge of the door.    
  
A small laugh escaped Sam from where he was hiding behind the door, pants around his ankles and Dean's hand on his cock.  Dean moved his hand up over Sam's mouth and thanked the farmer for his consideration.    
  
"Devil's heat we've had here, last two days. See you worked up a sweat already – you could leave the door open."  
  
"We'll be fine, thanks."  
  
When the farmer had turned away, Dean pushed the door firmly shut and yanked Sam out into the room, kissing him as roughly as before, kisses that neither would pull back from now.  
  
"I can't believe you found me and now I'm walking out.  The things we do for family, huh?" Dean said against Sam's cheek, emotions no longer suppressed.    
  
"Not here, not now.  Don't even bring it up.  Just you and me," said Sam, pulling away so he could see Dean, but keeping body contact. "Me and you."  
  
He settled back on the bed, long legs braced on the floor as he held his head and shoulders up off the bed to watch Dean.  He was sweating nearly as much as Dean in the overheated cottage turned sauna.  Dean discarded his pants in a deft move that Sam envied nearly as much as the way Dean effortlessly dismounted from the coach.  Dean's eyes were on Sam's cock, but they kept slipping up to his face, finally settling there after a few further glances down.  Sam was looking back at him the entire time, reading him.  
  
He stepped forward and knelt astride Sam's legs, tipping him back and leaning over to kiss him fiercely. Dean's low groan faded to become silent lust and then a high-pitched moan that made Sam ache.  Sam's arms were around him in that second; he knew what Dean was saying.  Dean's passionate kiss contorted, then his lips pressed tight together as he let himself be embraced.    
  
As it passed, he sat up, shaking his head to stop the sweat from itching its way down his nose, but the tears clung there, in zigzag trails, almost camouflaged.  Sam wiped them away, as his own ran back toward the bed.    
  
Dean leaned far, far back and pulled the water pail closer. As their cocks slid against each other, he dipped his hand into the cold water and trailed it up Sam's stomach; Sam rolled up at the shock of it, laughing.  Dean took another handful and made a cross on Sam's body, neck to cock, watching it drip through the dark hairs around the base and slink down under Sam's balls.  He drew a second line then, shoulder to shoulder.  Sam watched, entranced by the feel of the trickling cold, Dean's smooth fingers on his balls – he was breathing hard, ready for anything.    
  
Dean made simple symbols, using Sam's nipples as center points. Sam recognized the shapes and letters – Dean was making him a protected place, putting old warding spells on him, and then trailing his fingers, now like ice, down his body.  A smile played over his face when he was done, and he slipped slowly off the end of the bed, going straight down for Sam's cock.  
  
He took Sam in, held him deep in his mouth; his hands shaped to Sam's ass and lifted him to just the right angle.  When Sam came, his vision shrunk to dull blackness, framing Dean in the circle that remained. Dean swallowed what Sam gave, then pulled his head back. His mouth hung open, exhausted and ready to do it all over again.  When the darkness cleared, Sam saw Dean's lips full and wet, the reddened mouth over his, and kissed him again, wrapping his long arms around his brother and rolling over him.    
  
Sam rode on Dean again as he had on the rock, infinitely hotter here in the prairie heat of June, but quieter, more dangerous, and more desperate.  He tipped his hips back and forth, letting Dean fuck him deep, then shallow, feeling Dean's cock swelling and sliding smooth as Dean grunted and thrust up against him.   
  
They were awake most of the night, bound together, often inside each other or pressed so tightly that their skin stuck together with sweat and slick.     
  
***  
  
 _June 23, 1873_  
  
Morning came late, and the farmer didn't return till well after noon.   They were walking south on the road out of town when he pulled up beside them on his horsecart.  
  
"Saw you boys from back there.  You aren't plannin' to walk far are you?"  
  
"Just down to the crossroads and back.  Morning exercise."  
  
"It's long past morning," he said.  "Don't keep Mr. Pendergast waiting for you."  
  
His eyes went black and Dean jumped away with a "Jeez!" that quickly became an angry scowl.     
  
"Can't you leave the good people of Missouri alone?"  
  
"It's the good people we like best, Dean.  You should know that.  Well, off you go then," he sneered, waving his hand toward the crossroads. "It's not far now."    
  
***  
  
The sign at the crossroads pointed northwest to Kansas City, northeast to St. Louis, southeast to Memphis, and southwest to nothing.  In that direction was a field, newly sprouted a vibrant green, part of a crop that would never seed.  A giant oak marked the corner to the northeast, spreading its branches out toward the road but never able to leave.  The sky was hot again, white with a haze of cloud, and a line of squalls bubbled up in the distance, in the southwest.  
  
Dean started reviewing the plan.    
  
"Not here," Sam cut him off.  "Demons."  Sam kept at his task.  
  
"But our plan is foolproof," Dean added bitterly.  
  
"I will work on everything here – everything I know and then some. Malachi, if I can find him again.  If he'll talk to me."   
  
"Find the singer," Dean said.  "She was on that card, holding what I gave you."  
  
"All of it, Dean.  I'm going to get you back.  Just get yourself in and stay sharp."    
  
He paused. Dean waited, watching him.  The ropes were tight now, cutting off his circulation.    "You could ease up on that, you know."   
  
"You can't get free.  The demon was very clear."  
  
"It hurts."  
  
" 'm sorry."    
  
Sam continued tying the rope around his brother, leaning in each time close enough to bring their chests together as he passed the rope around to his other hand.    
  
"No going back now," Dean said gamely.  
  
"No going forward either."  
  
The kiss was sudden and fierce and softened to a tender brush across the lips and then to determined jaws and tears fought back.  
  
"You – are – pathetic," said the demon Pendergast.  "And that kiss belongs to me."  
  
Sam and Dean hadn't broken their physical connection, and as the demon approached, a natural defensive posture took over.  The demon paused.  
  
"I will keep my end of the bargain.  Come to Hell with me.  Meet my boss, and the boss's boss."  
  
He leaned in slowly, sliding a hand behind Dean's head, pausing to lick his lips.    
  
"You too, Sammy, this is a family affair," he said, his hand sliding around the back of Sam's neck, pulling him into a three-way kiss that went on far too long, leaving a cindery, burnt-metal taste in their mouths.  When he finally released them, Dean's hand was tight on the back of Sam's.  
  
"Why are you doing this?  Why let us save–"  Dean blurted out.  
  
"Mary?  Call it buying down, trading up, as you like.  We're not helping you, we're using you."  
  
Before they could reply, the demon glowed from within, and went rigid, arms jutting out.    
  
"It's come!" was all Pendergast managed to say, his voice alive with ecstasy.  His soul burned away, the willing sacrifice to his Lord's purpose.  His eyes, once all black, were now pure fire as the deep, guttering voice of the flames took over.  
  
"Time to see how the world really is," said the fire demon in the deep and bitter voice that had told them the truth, once. "See how easy it is to upset God's plans."   
  
Sam and Dean looked at each other, a look full of desperate recrimination and insane hopes, and then allowed the thing to come between them.  
  
"Sammy-" It was soft and warm and ached with weariness; it was submission and blessing in one word.  
  
"Dean…" In the emptiness of the crossroads, it was loud and desperate, a brother's apology.  
  
The fire demon lunged forward, right hand afire, stretched out to take its sacrifice, and just as quickly it turned and sank into the chest of the other one, the wrong brother, the one who wasn't ready to go.    
  
A Winchester burned, for the third time, glowing inside as the demon had, then blackening as his body caught on fire. Smoke drifted silently into eyes that couldn't close and stole the air from a mouth that couldn't scream. _I… Sam… Don't play with the fire, Sammy._


	12. Damage Done

_June 26, 1873   Outside Sikeston, Missouri_  
  
Dean carried two things with him on the road north to Sikeston and the places it lead him in the days and weeks to come.  These visions stayed with him for months, sometimes blending with Sam's voice in his head, or the sensation of Sam's hand on his leg as they drove the coach together, or the steady pressure of Sam's warm, awkward limbs in his side in the small coach when he woke at night, sure he wasn't alone.    
  
One of them haunted his dreams – Sam's face, hair withering, eyes gone white, the eerie glow of a soul dissolving in flickering light beneath his skin, all orange and yellow fire.  His brother, crumbling to ash in front of him, skin blistering and cracking, falling from shattering bones onto the scorched ground.  This vision always came at night, in darkness, glowing vividly in his mind, heating his body to a fever point where he screamed Sam's name.  His ravaged voice became permanently rough and deep.    
  
The other vision haunted his days – a giant figure he'd seen smashing its fist down on top of the Fire Demon as it vanished with Sam.  He could swear he'd seen something taller than most of the buildings in Memphis, a man strong and virile, dressed in overlapped armor and feathers, face striped with a deep, dyed rust like the iron earth, like blood long dried.    
  
It came from the southeast, from the horizon by leaps and bounds, faster than anything could move, reaching out a large red-stained hand, grasping for the last of the swirling flames of the fire demon and of Samuel Winchester, now vanished.  With it came a downpour, a flood of water that would extinguish the flames.  _But they were so elusive_.    
  
The tongues of fire that had consumed Sam spun inward to non-existence just as the giant's hand crashed down on the earth where Sam and the fire demon had been.  The earth shook and hummed, but stayed solid as fate claimed another Winchester. This giant turned and looked at Dean, a face full of longing and pain and accusation, mirroring Dean's own, and then it swirled away in the sheets of rain, shrinking and dwindling to nothing.  The storm raged, inundating the ditches and fields, washing Sam's ashes into the mud, then away in all directions as Dean tried to see the figure he thought he knew.  His eyes were flooded.   
  
This…thing he saw was his mind trying to make it right, to save Sam.  He felt its need, to reach out for the brother it loved, and believed it was his own need.  He heard its voice screaming his brother's name, deafening even over the storm, raging at his own impotent body bound to the signpost until he realized it was his own voice alone on the prairie.  
  
***  
  
Sam's knots held past the second sunrise, past thirst and consciousness.  
  
Dean hung there for two days, pleading with God to take him, pleading with his father and mother to speak to him.  No one came to answer his crazed yelling under the dark clouds.  The hot sun of the second day dried the blood around his bindings and they adhered to his wounds, making movement painful. He was unconscious most of the time, burning, parched, and alone.  He didn't see Malachi trudging toward him along the still-muddy road, dressed in the same ill-fitted brown suit he'd always worn, looking sweaty, exhausted and broken.  
  
Malachi woke Dean to the harsh light of the morning sun by striking him hard across the face.    
"You idiot, you could have listened – you could have refused. That's what free will is for!  He's never coming back now."   Malachi turned in anger to look at the devastation of their surroundings, then turned back to Dean, voice still angry, but softer.  "You had your brother in your arms, but you never knew his mind or his heart.  If you'd listened…."  
  
"Mallla-" Dean slurred, trying to comprehend why this figure was speaking what was in his own mind.  
  
"Be silent, for once, Dean."  
  
Malachi cut him loose and he fell hard to the earth, now burnt to reddish cinders in the fire's fury.  He lay in drying mud of the  road, unable to move.  Malachi squatted nearby and waited.  And waited, through the last stars of sunrise into midday's scorching heat.   
  
Eventually, Dean rose.    
  
He walked one way, then stopped and looked around, his thoughts confused.  He turned and headed the other direction, avoiding the center of the crossroads where Sam had burned away.  He staggered left at the crossing, north toward Sikeston.  Malachi walked beside him, unwilling to scold him further.  
  
Dean was drawing on something he had turned to many times before, something that gave strength but ultimately would fail and leave him even more lost.  It had taken him away from his heartless relatives, only to bring him under Sal's abusive love.  It had helped him get over losing his club in Salina, and losing Sam the first time, and he thought he'd tap into it one more time, only – it was all gone now.  
  
He stumbled and fell hard on the road near the cottage they'd rented two nights before, unable to move or think.  Malachi went to the house to find water.  Their things were all still there, untouched.  Flies buzzed furiously behind the screened porch of the nearby house, where a demon's discarded hunk of meat lay rotting quickly in the hot June weather, one foot propping the door open where he'd fallen.  
  
Malachi grabbed what was left of the bucket of water and carried it back to Dean, feeding him small handfuls that choked Dean's throat and still he forced Malachi's hand to his mouth, drinking between the spasms.  His eyes, tightly shut, opened slowly, fresh tears filling them.  The day went on as always, the trees overhead shading him with dappled sunlight.  Insects buzzed in the grass, newly luxuriant after the downpour.  It went on, all of it, without him, without Sam.    
  
***  
  
A half hour of silence later, Dean thought to ask a question of some importance.  
  
"What are you?"   
  
"What I _was_ , you mean," Malachi corrected him calmly. "A heretic who tried to tell you to be careful, until I was pulled home by the Garrison and demoted.  They've made me less than I was."   
  
Dean was silently hanging onto this conversation; the illogic of it all was a lifeline in an insane sea.   
  
"How can angels be heretics?  Is that what you're thinking, Dean?"   
  
"Do you not believe in God anymore, is that it?"    
  
"On the contrary, we believe in God _and_ humanity.  We believe in _you_ , Dean Winchester, of all things in Creation.  And until two days ago, we believed in your brother Samuel."  
  
Dean sighed, his ribcage quivering with the effort.  He'd had water enough for now. He stared back at the crossroads, now a quarter mile across the fields. He stared a thousand miles farther, as if he could somehow find Sam out there, still.  
  
"Where's my brother?"  
  
"In Hell, if I was not misled."   
  
"Sammy...." His voice faltered, then disappeared in a hacking cough.    
  
He cleared the crust from his eyes and the snot from his nose and stood, shakily.   
  
"So, Angel-man. You seem to have all the answers. What was that thing?"  He covered the exhaustion with fear, and the fear with cockiness.  
  
"Azathunn," Malachi whispered, his face and body suddenly tense.  "The Destroying Fire."  
  
"And the other one?"  
  
"There was no other."  
  
"I saw a–"  
  
"Azathunn took your brother into Hell, to the demon Azazel.  That was always their plan.  And Dean, you need to know… - it may have been Sam's choice."  
  
Dean ignored that, no matter how much it wrestled its way into his heart and burrowed home.  _Time for reasons later._  
  
"What are you, if not an angel?"  
  
"A marked man.  I may not live out the week, if the Garrison sends its soldiers to find me.  A fellow heretic left me a way to escape, but down here… if I had anything holy left in me, I could help myself – and you."  
  
"Then I need to figure out how to get Sam out myself," said Dean, his voice stronger now that he'd found a plan of his own.  "Tell them Dean Winchester is coming."  
  
"You took his name?"  Malachi asked.  
  
"It was our grandmother's name."  
  
Malachi was silent, thinking, then looked at Dean with the same cold lion-like eyes he'd seen when they first met, slow and sleepy but ready to leap.    
  
"Dean, what's out there is… It isn't what you usually hunt – it's not just things that go bump in the night.  It isn't even angels and demons."  
  
"Well, my life wasn't made of enough shit," Dean said, staring past Malachi. "Bring it on," he said, heading into the cottage and picking up the four satchels with as much purpose as he could muster. "What's left?" he asked, loaded up.  
  
"The Old Gods-"  
  
"The OLD GODS?" yelled Dean, dumping the bags on the ground.  
  
" -the ones we worship, who shaped our world and raised us up or cast us down."  
  
"And what about just plain God, the nice bearded guy in the clouds?"   
  
"Your sarcasm won't help you understand any better."  
  
"It helps my feelings, not my theology.  Answer the question."    
  
"God doesn't speak to the angels anymore.  Or the demons.   He fell silent so long ago; we've had to make our way on our own since then."  He seemed genuinely forlorn then, for a brief moment.  "Some of us gave up on humans."  
  
"I can't imagine why God got tired of talking to you.  So get a full-strength angel to send me into Hell."  
  
"You can't do that, Dean.  _I_ can't.  Don't ask me to."  
  
"Well, I know it won't be easy – it is Hell, after all."  He swung the satchels, his and Sam's, up and over his shoulders again and set off down the road.    
  
"No, Dean, they won't let you.  They wanted Sam.  You'll never get into Hell now, not even if you-  
  
"We've done some things that would qualify, Sam and I."  
  
Malachi looked at him, puzzled.   
  
Dean's eyebrow went up as he watched Malachi's face, but there was no expression there he could read, only the slow feline blink of his eyes.  
  
"I've been misinformed about what's right and what's wrong," said Dean.  
  
"I have no doubt of that."  
  
"Fuck you then," Dean swore, and turned, swaying under the four satchels, back up the deserted road into town.  
  
***  
  
Malachi lifted Dean's heavy body up into the coach, his own brow dripping with sweat, and tried to prop him in a comfortable-looking position on the cushioned seat.    Dean had made it halfway to where he and Sam left the coach, taking the distance in an angry stride that Malachi couldn't match.  He was constantly wiping tears from his cheek, muttering things to Sam as if he were clomping along beside him, things that Sam might never hear again.  The satchels swung from his arms and shoulders in rhythm, while in his mind, he turned over the revelation that God and Angels and Worse-Than-Demons had made choices for him and his brother.  Then he fainted from hunger right there in the street.  
  
Malachi had seen him fall, crumpling forward as his knees buckled and his head rolled back.   
  
They made good time after Malachi hitched the new horses.    
  
***   
  
_June 28, 1873   Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
In Memphis, Malachi had left Dean sitting in the house where had and Sam had been a few months earlier, only to return with food that showed it was clearly his first time to visit a grocer, butcher, and general store.   
  
They sat in silence, Malachi having his first meal in nearly 30 years, Dean his first real food in three days. He'd refused food even after coming around in the blazing hot coach, feeling quickly for Sam and reliving his loss, alone and overheated and sick as the coach lurched toward Memphis. Dean ate more than Malachi thought possible, but he didn't speak.  
  
Dean stood at the back of the yard for the rest of that day, watching the river roll by, endlessly.  The sun set, the orange disk lingering inside his eyelids as darkness fell.  He didn't talk, not even to Sam, not even in his head.  
  
He left the next morning before Malachi woke, and headed into town.  
  
***  
"Sir, if you need to send more, can you fill out all the names first?  I'll add the message.  It would help speed things along."    
  
The clerk stopped there and looked at the line of people behind Dean, the fifteen telegrams on his right that he'd sent out already, and then back at Dean.      
  
"Can you tell me how many more, sir?"   
  
"As many as I can find in this book," Dean said, a tone in his voice that was both charming and terrifying to the telegraph clerk.  He smiled broadly at the people waiting behind him, and it had much the same effect.  
  
He was still there a half hour later when the afternoon clerk arrived, cleared the line, and then stood watching him.   He was flipping through the journal page by page, turning it as needed, opening folded scraps.  His face was tight and focused.  
  
"He's lost it," said the morning clerk.  "Every single one of twenty-two telegrams to all corners of the country and beyond, all with one message:  'FIND MOLLY.  GET HER TO MEMPHIS.  SAM WHITMAN.'  I don't know who she is, but I'd like to meet her myself when she arrives."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Dean said flatly, handing him a twenty-third sheet and payment.  Sam's notebook had no more names in it.  The last one was addressed to Zion Grove; Dean had no idea what that would mean to them.  He didn't tell them Sam was gone.  He'd do that in person.  _Some day._  
  
***  
  
From the telegraph office, it wasn't far to the theater where Abelia performed.  When he arrived, the marquee proclaimed a stage production of _L'infer est oublier_ by a touring company from New Orleans, with posters naming the following day as the opening performance.  Dean pounded on the glass and got no response.  He tried the side door next, and found it locked as well.  
  
"Come back here, you cowardly –" and he stopped, not sure what she was.  "What the hell are you, anyway, an angel or another demon messing with us?"  
  
"That sort of comment is not going to win my heart, Dean," came the icy reply from behind him.  Abelia stood there, dressed for a performance, but without her ribbons.  Her face was drained, and worry permeated her expression.    
  
"They've got Sam," he said quickly.     
  
"I know. He's gone too far now.  Come with me, Dean."  
  
She took his hand and his head spun.  
  
***  
  
It was silent. A shaft of sun cut in through the open door.  Something brushed past his leg and he gasped, taking in a lungful of overheated ammonia.  He coughed violently, and his eyes stung; he remembered this place.  When his eyes and throat had adjusted, he was able to make out Taj, her gray hair disheveled.  An array of cards had been laid out before her.  She was motionless, and for a moment Dean thought she might be in a trance.  He looked at Abelia, who had her eyes fixed on Taj.    
  
Dean noticed the cards, either all white or all black, not the deck she'd used for the reading.  He went closer and saw the empty burnt-out holes where her eyes had been.  He winced at the sight.  
  
"The Amazing Taj… is she dead?" he asked, knowing the answer.  
  
"She found a way to know the unknowable.  I would guess she had some cryptic words for you and Sam…."  
  
"She sure didn't say the fire demon was planning to grab _him_.  What did this to her?"  
  
"That is the trace of an angel – few humans can withstand the sight of one.  The cards, though… there are angels and demons at work on Earth, and they have made common purpose."  
  
"And I'll ask again-"  Dean was furious and the stench only added to his anger.  "What are _you_?"  
  
"Best not to get caught up in all that, Dean.  What's more important now is what _you_ are."  
  
She took his hand again and they were again at the side door of the club in Memphis.  
  
"You and your brother have done something worse even than Cain and Abel.  Either that, or God no  longer cares what's going on.  Your world may fall if the battles of Heaven and Hell spread to Earth."   
  
"I'm going to get him out."  
  
"No, Dean, you won't," she said.  "You'll do what I say."  
  
***  
  
Dean returned to Malachi's, but said nothing of his meeting with Abelia.  Malachi was reading silently from the large book Dean had found before, the one with his name in it, turning the broad pages with utmost care.  
  
"Why am I in that book?" Dean asked.  
  
"I put you in here, Dean.  I was keeping track. The ones in charge told me to send Sam up to Lawrence a year ago, to test him.  How he ended up in Salina and found you, I have no idea.  No one could have known who you are, not even the Garrison.  Azazel's plan has some big backers, and not from our side."  
  
"Azazel?"  
  
"Azazel is a demon – not a particularly notable one, until recently.  He's made a name for himself in Hell and in Heaven as the disciple of Azathunn."  
  
"Angels and demons working together to stop Sam and me?  I'm flattered."  
  
"You shouldn't be.  Everything is in danger now.  We need our own plan."    
  
"We?  Some team we'd make. A hunter with a price on his head and a … were you ever human?"  
  
"My vessel was, Dean.  Mellie Constan was lashed into a stupor and left to die, and as he departed, he prayed for the Lord to raise him up, to make him his sword of justice.  And here I am."   
  
"You left out the part about why they hate you."  
  
"I never advanced after my views on humanity became known, and my commitment to ending the Recurrence was doubted.  I didn't toe the party line," Malachi added, his voice tight.  "But I need to read more before we start," Malachi said pointedly, and all his attention was on the book again.  
  
Dean went into the other room and knelt by the satchels.  He'd avoided going through Sam's stuff, but undid the satchel now and fished among the books until he felt the leather of Sam's journal.  He stopped, and his hand closed on a shirt. The smell came to him from memory, pine tar soap and road dust and a pungent tone like gun oil, not unlike his own odor.  He felt the small hard amulet wrapped carefully inside it.  When he slipped it out into his palm, it lay there, warm and bizarrely ugly. Still, it was Sam now.     
  
With the memories came a searing line of grief up through his gut.  He pulled the journal out and flipped it open.  The familiar smooth curls of his brother's clear handwriting only increased the grief, adding the deceptive comfort of a connection to Sam.  
  
Dean sat back on the floor and read Sam's entire journal in one sitting, amazed at how Sam seemed present on every page – inflections, vocabulary, attitude, and even intimacy.  When he read, his pain withdrew, yet came back stronger as he closed the cover on the last page.  He opened it again, flipped back a few pages, and re-read every "no", "never", "bad idea" comment.  It was all a warning, he realized.  Sam had known how dangerous it was, and had hated Dean's willingness to sacrifice, but all that went into his journal, unheard until now.    
  
"Sam…."  
  
"What?" asked Malachi from the other room.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Sam's voice was in his head, saying 'no', 'never', but Dean made his choice anyway.  
      
***  
  
Abelia didn't return for over a week, and in that time, Dean had grown restless.  He had repaired the worst of the damage to the coach from when Malachi had driven the horses to their limit on the way back.  The interior still smelled of Sam, he thought, most of all the dark-stained area where Sam's head had pressed against the upholstery as they slept wedged in the small seat.  He left the idea of cleaning it and returned to tightening screws on the wheels.    
  
He restocked his holy water and bought salt at the store; he left quickly before the memory of his last visit there with Sam completely overtook him.  In the alley beside the shop he stood bracing himself with one hand against the wall, the late summer heat pressing in on him.    
  
"Dean?"  Her voice was gentler this time.  
  
"I was supposed to be the one to go."  
  
"No self-preservation?  Or no self worth preserving?  
  
"If the fire demon can take Sam to Hell, you can do the same for me."  
  
"No, I can't go to Hell.  And neither can you.  You have no idea what you'd be going into.  Your very few years on Earth have not prepared you, even with training as a hunter."  
  
"I know what I'm doing."    
  
"Where is Sam?  Where, exactly, right now?  In all of Hell, where are you going to start?" she asked angrily.  
  
Dean bluffed a response, but his mouth couldn't even form it fully.  
  
"I want to try.  I owe it to him," was what finally came out.  "I'm sure I can find a demon who'd be happy to take me in, if you won't."  
  
"No!" Her tone made it clear that idea was out but Dean used the reaction as leverage.  
  
"I'll go find one then.  Shouldn't be hard in this town."  
  
" _Stay right here._ "  Abelia was desperate, even panicky.  
  
"SEND ME IN THEN!" he shouted, turning on her.  
  
She hesitated, but held his gaze without flinching, then laid out her few terms.  Dean agreed, precipitously, hastily, fully.  
  
With both hands, she cradled and caressed his face.    
  
"Close your eyes.  Look for him where you most fear to look.  Resist the demons with all the strength you have.  They'll be too afraid of you to harm you seriously."    
  
Dean's eyes popped open at her last remark, but she ran her hands down over his face, closing his eyes again gently, then she slid her thumbs across his eyelids from nose to temple, a dark band appearing where her fingers traced.    
  
"Hell is all around you."  
  
"Tell me about it," Dean said wearily.  
  
"No, Dean.  Look at it from a different perspective."  
  
His head spun again and her warm hands were gone.  
  
  


  
Below him was darkness, then a hazy gray spread out from where his feet were.  He could feel them again.  Pain rang through his body and if he'd had a way to scream, he would have; the fire inside was too much to bear.   
  
The light flickered, and he came to himself, back to awareness.  The intense pain had stopped, the blackness had disappeared, and he was in a barren landscape, his feet on a hard surface like rock.  Above him was a writhing sky, and when he looked up, he felt like he could fall into it.  He closed his eyes and jerked his head down, fighting the sensation. His hair hung across his eyes.  
  
When he opened them again, he saw the slope leading down and away across a lifeless world, not even traces of dead things that had once been alive, no water even.  The sky, putrescent green and black, flickered ominously.  There was no smell of any kind, but only a faint sound, just at the edge of his hearing, which set him on edge – a scraping scream like a string instrument, harsh and distant.    
  
He was nowhere, and Dean was not there at his side, and nothing was right.  
  
 _"Dean?!"  
  
_ ** _DEAN!!_**


	13. Descent

_Not hot, not cold.  No wind_.  Sam wasn't sure he sensed anything at all - beyond the firm ground beneath his feet and the dizzying dark above him.  He listened to the high, grating noise, but he couldn't place it. He looked down – same clothes, same hands, same boots. No more crossroads, no Fire Demon inside him now, no pain.  No Dean.  _There it is.  There's the pain._  
  
He looked in every direction, but the empty land stretched as far as he could see in the half-light.  He settled on a direction, for no reason other than it felt right.  The land didn't seem to change as he crossed it, but neither did he feel tired, or hungry or thirsty.  Time was impossible to tell, but it seemed like days passed before he looked up again.  The same vertigo swept over him as if he were looking over a high cliff.  He felt himself falling up into it, then something caught his eye against the sickly clouds, and the feeling passed.  It detached itself from the sky and made its way down to him.  
  
Sam stepped back as the thing closed in – it was moving much faster than he'd judged.  It hit the ground with a crack and took shape, more of a shade of what it once was.  It resembled the dark demonic smoke enough that Sam backed away, reaching for a crucifix or a flask but finding nothing.  His pockets were empty, even the secret ones.  The creature flickered and solidified into something like a person, yet ever shifting.    
  
"What are you?" it asked him, and Sam didn't want to answer it.  
  
  


  
Dean's brain told him he was facing the other direction, whatever that meant.  The sensation  started and stopped almost immediately. He stood with his arms out cautiously, as if balancing himself.  
  
One eye opened slowly, and looked left and right.  _Dark, empty, and damn cold. Not how I pictured it._   He opened his other eye and surveyed the area quickly.  He was on his own.  
  
 _Look out, Hell._   "Here comes the other Winchester brother."    
  
His voice, already unsteady, was muffled and soft.  He cleared his throat and tried again, louder.  It came out louder and yet still muffled; the air seemed to carry no sound very far.  
  
On either side of him were walls of rock, towering far above him, and a valley running before him and behind him, into the dark distance.  No sky but black showed above him.  He went first to the cliff face, to touch the wall, and found it was ice -- dirty, rough ice and above his reach smoother, more translucent ice, as far up as he could see.    
  
He found a place with cavities large enough to hold his boot-tip, and places where he could lock his fingers into the cracks and pits though they burned him sharply.  He hoisted himself up the cliff, then jolted back at the tormented faces staring from the ice, just inches below the surface.  He lost his grip, and fell.  He stood again, looking up at the icewall, now making out a multitude of tortured, terror-filled faces, all trapped in the ice.   
  
"Not how it's portrayed up top," he muttered, and thought briefly of which way to go.  He decided to continue the way he'd been facing when he first opened his eyes, which was toward the widening of the cleft ahead of him, away from the darkness behind him.  He recalled Abelia's instruction - to look where he most feared looking.  With a sigh, he headed toward the darker end, toward where it vanished in the distance.  
  
He walked for a long time before hunger came to him and with its first pang a small figure appeared yards ahead, waiting with visible impatience.    
  
Dean stopped and examined it from where he was about fifteen feet away, but it only grew more impatient, and his stomach gurgled its needs.  He set his jaw and approached it.  It was part human, part something else, something he desperately needed to send back to Hell, _if only I weren't in Hell_, he thought.  _If only my life had led somewhere other than conversations with creatures like this.  
_  
"Where am I?" he opened with.  
  
"Some feel it's more like Purgatory, and say that the ice is the real Hell."  
  
"Do you have food here?"  
  
"Of course we do, Dean.  We're a lot like Heaven in that way.  You get what you want most."  
  
Its tone was light, and as if to assure him, it held out a large piece of jerky in one hand, waiting for him to take it.  
  
"Put it down, there," Dean indicated.  
  
"Oh for Lucifer's return, TAKE IT, you idiot!"  
  
Dean took it, smelled it, and had to ask –  
  
"Human?"  
  
"It's beef, Dean."   
  
He tasted it and couldn't stop eating.  
  
"Izit curfed?" he asked belatedly, a small shower of saliva escaping before his tongue licked around his mouth quickly.  
  
"Does it taste like it's cursed?"  
  
"Can I have another piece then?"  
  
"As many as you like.  Or we could say that one will sate you as long as you wish."  
  
Dean's hunger dwindled at those words and he felt full, even a bit sleepy.  He shook his head to lose the drowsiness., embarrassed by his need to eat. He imagined Sam's disapproving face.   
  
"Where's Sam?!"  
  
"Is that who you came for?" the figure asked him.  
  
"Yes!"    
  
And that was the truth, but not what he and Sam had agreed to.  
  
"The terms were very clear: your mother OR your father.  And you get back out.  Nothing about saving Sam."  
  
"Lying bastards."    
  
"Not at all.  We choose our words carefully, and you, Dean, are endlessly gullible,.  But you could get Sam… instead.  So choose again, Dean, and without Sam's voice this time.  Do you save Mary, or John? Or Samuel?  Take your time."  
  
Alone, the choice overwhelmed him.  It had all seemed so easy with Sam there to contradict him, to see the outcomes, and to silently agree with his choice, no matter what it was.  
  
"Very well then, continue down this way a few-"  
  
"I didn't pick yet!"  
  
"Yes, you did," the small figure contradicted, tapping its skull.  "A few days further this way, then up the stairs, that's another day, and you'll find them in cages of fire-  
  
Dean ran his hand over the tense muscle in the back of his neck, watching the thing in front of him, wishing he had his knife.  Or his shotgun.    
  
"Did you say fire?" he asked after a moment.  
  
"Yes, cages of fire."  
  
"Okay…"  
  
"Dean, really, thinking of safety and warmth at a time like this. _Tsk._ Of course, they haven't got four days left, least of all your mother.  You'll need to run."  
  
"For four days?"  
  
"Well that meat will stick to your ribs long after your own flesh has melted off, so no worrying about food.  When in Hell, think like a demon, Dean."  
  
It turned and vanished.  
  
***  
Dean ran for what seemed like hours, then stopped and looked around.  Nothing was different, least of all the unbroken ice cliffs that vanished into darkness above him.  He wasn't tired, or even out of breath.  _And my heart's not beating.  Great._  
  
He ran for two days after that, freed a bit by his apparent death, through endless cold and night. He talked to Sam for a while and said what needed to be said.  He ran for a long while alongside the image of John as Sam described him, and as he'd seen him in Sikeston, and as he remembered him from childhood.  He tried to explain his decisions, but John just kept silent.  
  
When the staircase appeared, it was as a hairline along the face of the wall, sloping so steeply that it took only another day to get to the top, where the ice wall ended abruptly.  Dean stumbled as he reached the top and the familiar walls were replaced by a vast openness, lit by a dull glow that seemed to come out of the ice itself.    
  
He sat for a moment, looking back into the abyss, now inky night in comparison to the lukewarm glow.  _Sam, I'm going to get Mom out, like we planned, and then Dad, if it kills me.  Hell, I'm already dead, right?  And then you.  Don't worry, I'll do that, dead or alive._  
  
***  
  
"Dean?"    
  
The voice was hard and bitter; it woke him to the cold of the plain.  The light was brighter now.   
Dean stood up, still not hungry and yet regretting the loss of food more each day.   
  
The female demon from Belleville waited at arm's length from him, radiating contempt and hatred.  
  
"Hell has a bitter sense of humor," said the woman, still dressed for a cold night's ride on a coach.  
  
"Let's get on with it," Dean replied warily.  
  
"Your mother, what's left of her, is over the ridge.  They asked me to take you there."  
  
"Where's my father?  I want to see him."  
  
"Oh, now you chose, Dean, you don't get them both.  You do have a talent for hurting yourself, though.  You'd make a good torturer.  Ever thought of staying here with us permanently, maybe go looking for Sam?"  She dangled the words like ripe fruit.  
  
"Where is my mother?"  
  
***  
  
What stood inside the cage was no longer Mary, but a black and stunted shape.  It was human and demon; depending on where he looked he could see either, or both intermingling.  Just once, his mother's eyes looked out at him, the way she looked at him as she'd pulled the covers tight around him on cold nights.    
  
As he approached, smoke and fire swirled around her and she seemed to join with it willingly.  She stepped past the bars of the cage in that form, and put her hand on his chest.  The movement so reminded him of the Fire Demon seizing Sam that he stumbled back.    
  
What Mary was now, laughed.  Mary the wife in Lawrence, so in love with John, flickered to the surface and then the figure laughed again at Dean's confusion.  It stopped suddenly and looked past him so intensely that he had to turn.  John Winchester stood there, weak and pale, his pain cut into him in a lattice of scars.    
  
"Dad-"   
  
Dean ached, feeling the pain from each of them.  John didn't speak, but only looked at Mary, then at Dean.  He was as Dean remembered him, not far from the demon's form in Sikeston, but truer, thinner, his face no longer solid and strong.  
  
"Dad, I'll get you out."  
  
"No, Dean, you won't.  You're too late for her, and you bargained poorly.  What kind of fool makes a deal with a demon to walk into Hell and only take one parent home?  What kind of son does that?"   
  
Old angers swelled in Dean but he bit back the things he'd said for years to the road, to the sky, even to Sam.   
  
"Samuel will rule here soon, and then the Winchesters will begin a new chapter," came the voice from behind him, hollow, with nothing of Mary left in it.  
  
The flames that engulfed her were playing in John's eyes before Dean even turned back to face her.  
  
"Mom!  Fight it. I can get you out."  
  
"You poor idiot.  What made you think you were a demon hunter? You came here to get Sam back so you'd be happy, and this little ruse-"  
  
"It isn’t a ruse!" Dean yelled.  "I want you free, I just can't save all of you."  
  
"This is your future, Dean," said John, over his shoulder.  "And mine."  
  
Mary's eyes were black behind the yellow flames that danced over her and then she dissolved into smoke and sparks of fire and Dean turned to his father in desperation, calling on God, then on Sam.  But John was gone.  
  
"You see, Dean, we keep our deals to the letter," said the woman in the black dress who'd brought him here.  "You had your chance to save her.  Your father was never yours to rescue.  You may yet see Samuel again, if you survive his return to Earth."  
  
Loss came with so many tiny pains, in his head, his chest, even his joints.  _Nothing I do works.  Nothing is right about this._     
  
"And when we want to, we can sometimes have our heart's desire, deal or not.  You took something from me, up there, Dean.  So now you find out how that feels."  
  
The coach demon seized him by the throat and plunged him hard down against the ground, where the ice cracked, or his legs, he couldn't tell from the pain that spread through him.  He was sinking into something cold, colder than he thought possible, until it was all around him, suffocating him. The demon pushed him into the dark until the ice immobilized him, hardening against his body, freezing even to the surface of his eyes.  He tried to scream.  _Sam?!  
  
SAM!!_  
  
He repeated it until his mind failed.   
  


  
  
The shade waited for Sam to answer, but he couldn't.  There was less there before him than if it were empty space; it pulled at him like the sky.  
  
"What are you?" it asked him again.   
  
A hand reached out, blackened but human.  Sam stood his ground.  Curiosity guided it, like a child who had no idea what was impossible.  The hand was hot, painfully so, but it skimmed over his skin, until it came upon a scar left by the Fire Demon on Sam's neck and retracted. The hand returned quickly, sliding along Sam's temple, and he thought of a night on the prairie with Dean when they'd been new in love and afraid of it, and the thought passed out of his head and was gone, not even missed.    
  
"You remember life," it said.  
  
Sam pushed away from it and moved on, disquieted.  The shade stood there looking after him.  He headed further down the hill, moving as quickly as he could without running in sheer panic, and when he looked back, there were many others, all dark and smoke-wreathed, and in the sky, more still, descending.  He ran.  
  
At the bottom of the slope, what had to be miles away, he slowed, not out of breath, but unsure of where to go in an empty world.  The shade he first saw was at his side, effortlessly.  
  
"Are you looking for knowledge, or for faith?"  
  
That wasn't a question he'd expected, but the answer seemed plain in his head – _knowledge._  
  
"Faith," he said clearly, and it was not such a great surprise after all.  _Have a little faith in me, Dean_.  
  
The shade stepped aside and pointed toward a structure Sam hadn't noticed in the gloom, a small and simply-made stone structure.  Other shades were gathering, moving in toward him, some more or less human, many unable to take shape, swirling as clouds of smoke and fire, the true demons.  
  
The doors were covered with tiny symbols, some of which he recognized as spells, others that he didn't understand, although they tickled at the edge of his mind.  The shades gathered close at first, but stayed behind as he opened the doors and went in.  
  
Two stone altars stood at the front, and little else – the same sky overhead, angry swirls and half-light, no roof, no windows in the high walls, no pews. On the other altar were his brother's books.  Opened to the right page, begging to be read, when the time came. He touched the edge of the first altar because it was his, he knew.  His books were there, both of them, just right.  Ready.  Waiting. It was all expected, _normal_ , and here in this temple it made sense.  
  
He looked at the first book, on the right side of his altar, a book written with fire on skin.  The language was ancient and he read it without knowing it. He didn't want to read it, but it made itself space in his head, speaking in the Fire Demon's low, guttering flame of a voice, like a flame hungry for air.  The story was familiar – a brother's murder, red soil crying out.  The brother who escaped had murdered rightfully, a deserved death for the coward on the ground.   
  
The second book was a red clay tablet carved with symbols.  It spoke to him of Heaven and Hell, and a war between angelic brothers that could only end in death, a death delayed but inevitable. He knew that language as well; the symbols made themselves clear to him as he traced them with his fingers, hearing a cold, convincing voice that spoke only the truth to him.  
  
Sam looked over at the other altar, at its books.  He felt wrong moving closer, but he could see the nearer book, and recognized the script as one Dean had written out on the back of a scrap of paper – something Dean had seen in a secret journal in Malachi's house.  It spoke itself to him in a tone so high and sharp he felt his eardrums would tear; he covered them against it but the words resonated in his mind – it was the story of two brothers, one who raised his hand against the other and was cast down for his misguided love and disobedience.  
  
The second book on his brother's altar was a long, folded piece of bark paper.  The language he didn't know; the symbols were curiously elaborate, often containing distorted faces in their design, but they remained illegible.  The writing had a dull glow of precious metal long forgotten, and lettering the color of dried blood, or black.  He reached out to touch it and his head split with pain, knocking him back to the stone floor.  
  
"It's not time for that yet, Samuel," said a man standing over him.  He was clothed all in black, his long coat and tall hat both crumpled and dirty.  He resembled an itinerant preacher and spoke in the same tones.  The man reached out a hand and Sam took it – solid, slightly warm, very human.  As he pulled Sam to his feet, his eyes blazed yellow, like the Fire Demon's flames, like the demons who'd invaded Zion Grove, and Sam jerked his hand free.  
  
"Does Dean have faith in you?  Does he believe you came here by accident?"  
  
Sam's jaw clenched and worked as he decided how to respond.  
  
"We know how it happened, don't we, Sammy?  But what does Dean believe?"  
  
"Who are-"  
  
"My name is Azazel, the Yellow-Eyed, Apostle of the Lord."   
  
"You're the one who ruined our family's lives?  You're the Fire Demon?"   
  
"But a mere servant and a mote in our Lord's eye.  It is my great honor to meet you at last, Samuel Winchester, and trust me, your life is not ruined – it's just beginning.  Come outside; there's someone I want you to meet."  
  
***  
  
The shades swarmed to Sam as soon as he cleared the threshold, reaching out to touch him, to pull some memory of life from him.  As they grazed him, wiping out bits and pieces of his life without him even realizing it, their own horrors bled back – flashes of poorly-lived lives came from the more human shapes, blinding terror from the more demon-like ones and the inhuman tortures they'd endured.   
  
And then, amid the chaos of death and fear was a scene he thought he recognized - a woman pouring oil around her infant and over herself and lighting it on fire, whispering all the while _"End it now, save it all, end it now, save it all…"_  
  
"Mom?"- and then she was gone in the crush of shades, twice as many now rushing to him, pulling his soul to pieces, pulling from his mind little moments of John and Locust Ridge, Dean and Memphis, their first hunt in Salina, Kansas -- leaving so many gray gaps.  
  
A figure fought back through the crush again, seizing him and keeping the others away.  
  
 _Mom?  
  
Samuel?_  
  
The memory of Dean she drew from him was suffused with Sam's love for his brother, and even as he lost it forever, he knew it had made him happy, and kept her human a bit longer.   
  
_Samuel! You found each other!_  
  
"Time to go, Mary," said the yellow-eyed demon, stepping from the temple door.   
  
As she was pulled from Sam by the firestorm, he glimpsed a tower in ruins, rebuilding itself stone by stone, standing tall, vanishing into black clouds and lightning at the top.  And then she was gone.  
  
The shades were driven from Sam, from the world itself in a whirl of fire, back up to the swirling mass above that was not the sky at all.  
  
"I wanted you to meet her at least once."  
  
"What have you done to her?" Sam yelled at him.   
  
"A powerful soul that one – she's held out for so many, many years.  Maybe she knew you'd rescue her."  
  
"I intend to," Sam bristled, using every bit of bravado he had left.  
  
"Well, yes and no, Sam," the yellow-eyed demon chuckled.  "You never actually made that agreement."  
   
"Then where am I, exactly?"  
  
"Close to Hell.  Not where I expected him to leave you; sort of a neutral ground. But now that you're here with us, we have a proposition for you.  Come to Hell with me."  
    
Azazel put his arm around Sam's shoulder, like a friend, and they fell into the sky together.  
  
  


  
  
Dean awoke, frozen, unable to move; his fingers were frostbitten, from what he could see.  
  
A cold blue light streaming through an open door met his eyes, and beyond that he saw leaden sky and snow, a foot of snow on the ground already and more falling.  His face was pressed into rough-hewn floorboards.  They left lines across his face when he raised his head slightly.  
  
He huffed and coughed and inhaled sharply through his nose, filling his lungs with crisp fresh air.  He slumped back onto the floor, eyes closed.  
  
"Not in the ice, not in the ice, that's good.  Maybe still in Hell, that's not good."  In his mind's eye, he replayed his mother's transformation into a demon, his father's disdain for all his efforts, and the key lesson: _I failed them all._     
  
"Sam!" He yelled it, and heard it reverberate through the otherwise still space.  
  
He tried each part of his body, finding them hard to move, but not yet frozen solid.  After a few moments, he was able to bend his arms at the elbow and bring his aching hands up under him.  They didn't work the way he wanted, but he could push himself off the floor; this brought excruciating pain to his arms, his back, and his head.   
  
He pushed and pulled himself onto his knees in a squat, feet complaining as they bent in his boots.  The cold was deep inside him, and he began to shiver.  He brought his hands, pale white and covered with snow that didn't melt, up to his mouth to warm them.  The air he blew on them did little to help, so he reluctantly laid them on his neck.    
  
"SONOFABITCH!" The jolt of shuddering cold woke him fully, and he looked around.  He was in a deserted building, two rooms of dark wood that he could see. A small window, poorly glazed, gave a wavy view of a path leading up a hill.   Behind him, when his back allowed him to turn that far, was a stone hearth with deep burns etched into it, some with traces of ash, and snow from the open door.    
  
No one had responded to his swearing, and not a sound could be heard.  Outside, though, he heard wind in the trees as noises detached themselves from the background hum.  He staggered to his feet, legs protesting both the cold and weakness, and lurched awkwardly to the open door, where he saw the sky.     
  
"It can't be."  
  
He stepped outside, waded through the new snow and turned to look back.  A small, nondescript wood-plank cabin nestled against the slope of the holler, while the trees on the ridge above poured snow from their branches as the wind came again.  The cabin was a familiar style, less than half the size of Sarah's in Zion Grove, but a similar construction.    
  
Dean went back in, his fingers tingling as the blood flowed faster.  He cupped them together and exhaled slowly, not quite ready to believe where he was.  He struggled to recall everything Sam had told him about John and their life in Tennessee, the cabin where he'd grown up and the place where the Fire Demon had burned their father alive until he was ash on the hearthstones.   There were marks on the stones here, and ash piled behind the screen, but little else.    
  
On the road to Kansas City, under winter skies, Dean had asked Sam about their father, their life together in all the missing years.  John never lit the fire until Sam was coming up the walk after school, preferring to sit bundled against the cold of winter and keep fire out of his life as much as possible.    
  
In summer, though, Sam fled to his father's bed when the storms lit up the skies over their house.  "When I was six, I stopped doing that," Sam had lied.  Dean had let him, because he was resting his head on Dean's chest as he told that story and the rumble of his voice through Dean's body was all that mattered.  "I know it was six, because Dad cut a line in the door every time my birthday came around."  
  
Dean put his hands on every door frame inside and out and slid his fingers up and down the frozen wood.  _Nothing._   He ran his fingers up high, as high as his head, and laughed for a second.   The laugh died away amid memories of his useless journey into Hell, where Sam was still lost.  He needed to find Sam _here_ more than ever.    
  
The cabin was small, so he tried the doorway that led into the smaller room, away from the fireplace and the main room.  It was dark and windowless, and as cold as ever.  Dean's fingers ached and throbbed, but even that didn't keep him from feeling a notch, and then another a few inches below it.  He ran his hand up and felt seven more notches and kept counting until he reached the last one.  He leaned his face against the door and felt each notch again, fourteen in all, the top one more than an inch over his own height.      
"Tall bastard."    
  
He ran his hand across the notches, feeling the cut of his father's knife and his brother's shaggy head against his fingertips, but they were both seven years behind him.   
  
***  
  
On the road outside Belleville the cold had been the same, the smell of the air as clean that night as it was now; Sam had told him of the Widow who lived over the ridge to the east, the woman who'd taught him the prayer that saved them from the Fire Demon.   Dean found his way to the Widow's cabin, and found the burns in the wooden floor, charred swirls that matched the scars on his arms. Sam's stories kept coming to him, stories of John's flight here with Sam, and his training from the widow – all the things Sam told him.  Sam talked on and on in Dean's head, and Dean kept his hands pressed against his neck until the pain subsided.     
  
"Knoxville."    
  
Dean heard that in his own voice and realized he'd said it out loud.  He needed to get to Sevierville at least, and all he knew was he was near Locust Ridge, a fair ways east of Sarah, Jeremy, and an unwelcoming community of hunters.  And he was freezing to death.  The road from the cabin led up steeply through the trees to the ridge top and then down into another valley, where it joined a similar path and broke out of the trees at the edge of the small community.    
  
Dean searched carefully for his money, tucked into an inside vest pocket.      
 _  
I need a coat, a ticket to Knoxville, and a hot meal._   "Meal first."  
  
"Beg pardon?"    
  
A woman was coming up the road toward him.  She seemed alarmed by Dean's general gauntness, his thin summer coat and pants, the overgrown beard.  
  
"Are you in need of help, brother?" she asked warily.  
  
"Where am I?" Dean asked, followed by "And how long has it been snowing?"  
  
"You're in Locust Ridge, stranger, and Christmas is but three weeks away."  
  
"What – December?"    
  
She took his arm firmly. "Wouldn't you rather be back in Memphis?"   
  
The sun slanted weakly through the bare limbs over Malachi's house, and Dean fought down his stomach's rebellion against the odd transportation.   
  
Malachi watched from the front porch, leaping up faster than Dean thought he could move.  The woman with her hand on Dean's shoulder looked around cautiously.  
  
"I've done all I can," she said to Malachi, letting go of Dean, who stumbled.  "We'll have the Garrison on us if you ask for more -- or whatever it was sent him so far away for so long.  We hear rumors that the Old Ones have returned.  If they're here, we're all in danger."  
  
"Any word on Samuel?"  
  
"He was not yet in Hell."  
  
"I thank you, Mezahra."    
  
When she vanished in a flurry of wings, Malachi said gently, "Come inside, Dean, and tell me where you've been the last six months."  
  
***  
  
 _December 4, 1873   Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
"Hell? I can't say if it was.  I've never been there.  But this woman who sent you there and brought you back – only God can do that."    
  
Malachi was distressed in a way Dean hadn't seen before.    
  
"I don't think she's God," Dean said.  "She makes her living singing in a nightclub."    
  
"God moves in-  
  
"-mysterious ways, yes, but she isn't God.  She said Sam and I were in danger – and that even if it meant losing our parents to the demons, that we should stay out of Hell."  
  
"Wise counsel twice ignored," Malachi scowled at him.    
  
"No one is going to tell me I should let my Mom and Dad rot in Hell."  
  
"Take me to her," Malachi said, ignoring Dean's boast.  
  
"I have no idea where she is," Dean replied.  "I just called her and she was there."  
  
"Summon her then."  
  
Dean hesitated, but Malachi was unwavering.  
  
"Abelia?" Dean asked half-heartedly, looking up in the air.  
  
Nothing happened.  Malachi waited a moment, then stood up and took a small vial from under his shirt collar.    
  
"They tell me when I repent and reform, my grace will return.  For now, this is the most sacred thing in this room.  Hold it, and call her again."  
  
Dean put the vial between his hands.    
  
"I could just go look for her.  I have a few choice words to say to her myself."  
  
"Call her.  I am prepared."  
  
" _You're_ prepared?"  Dean asked, not sure who was more nervous.  
  
He cleared his throat and called her name again.  
  
"Abelia!  Get your ass here, now."  
  
"Dean, you don't need to be crude.  And who is-  who is this wingless wonder?" she asked.  
  
"Malachi, meet Abelia."  
  
Malachi dropped to his knees, his hands over his eyes, more abased than Dean had imagined possible from such a confident and powerful individual.  
  
"We have tried to follow your rules," Malachi whispered.  
  
"I make NO CLAIM on your kind.  I have NO RULES for you!" Abelia yelled at him.  
  
"For an all-powerful…thing, you're pretty rude," said Dean, seeing more than a bit of himself in her now.  
  
"And you didn't tell me you had an angel for a friend," Abelia stated coldly.   
  
"Hey, the man's apologizing."  
  
"Dean, wait for me at the hotel," she said, staring down at Malachi.   
  
"The hell I will,-" was all Dean got out before he realized he was looking at a radiator and some fairly garish wallpaper.    
  
"Room service, Mr. Winchester," came a polite voice from the other side of the door after a gentle rapping.


	14. Is It Too Far Gone?

_December 4, 1874   Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
Dean stood in the finest of mankind's inventions, letting the hot water rush over him, across his face and down the scarred lines on his neck and arms, running rivers of heat where flame had been before.  His skin was red and angry, but his own anger had faded to black inside.  
  
He felt the scars on his neck, really felt them, for the first time in years, and recalled the burning hand that had reached for him, grasping and gouging, just as it had torn into Sam in Sikeston.  The same claw of fire that sank into Sam's chest…  
  
 _When I find you…_. His mouth twisted in grief and his hands grasped in vain at the smooth tiles on the wall, wanting to rip the barrier away and be back in Hell, taking Sam home with him.  _When I find you… you need to show me your scar.  Let me touch it.  Let me know you're real._  
  
Hot spray on his face wiped the thought away in blessed pain.  He was going to test the Gayoso Hotel's plumbing and their claims of hospitality until the entire supply of hot water, or the ache in his chest, or both finally surrendered.  
  
***  
  
In the empty room, warm skin still radiating heat from the shower into the cool air, Dean pressed his hands to his ears to stop the silence.  The silence was the hardest part. Sam grew up differently, in nature and happy – his disquiet came from a searching curiosity and a desire to make things better.  Sam talked to learn, but he liked the background rumble of Dean's comments on anything and everything – they pulled him out of his thoughts.    
  
Despite a background chorus of mechanical and natural noises that grew gradually louder to fill the spaces, a vaster silence filled Dean's life now that Sam wasn't there.  He'd talked nearly nonstop until he'd met Sam – and discovered someone worth talking to.   
  
Now this quiet brought no peace, only annoyance and anxiety, and a searching movement, as if he could find the silence lost in some corner of the room and shake it back to life.     
  
The hotel room was empty even with Dean pacing it, silent despite his muttering. He repeated everything he'd learned about angels, demons, and whatever Abelia was – _judging from Malachi's reaction, she's pretty close to being God_.  He rattled off the names of every prayer, incantation, exorcism and curse he'd learned over the past two years with Sam.  When that ran dry, he retold Sam's story, from birth to death, every piece he could remember, and some parts he stuck in later though he knew they'd happened earlier because _c'mon Sammy, I don't pay attention to everything you say._  
  
  


  
  
Hell, the actual Hell, was unimaginable to Sam before he went there; no cold nightmare of loss, no torments of his own failures, not even the battlefields of the War – nothing compared.  The sound he'd heard – the high scraping sound that rubbed his nerves raw in that Other Place – was deafening now, and he recognized it, and sobbed even as he tried to get away.  Scream cutting through scream, the shriek of a sinner, the howl of a child in pain, the roar of demons and their work came to him and the sight and the smell came with the sound.  His own flesh felt the tearing claws and knives and flames that pressed in on him.  Billions upon billions were in agony.    
  
Azazel watched him for so long without blinking, measuring his reaction, then stopped the visions with a nod of his head; the sound was lower now, rubbing against his eardrums like a trapped insect.    
  
"You'll learn to do that soon enough, after you've been through the pain yourself," the yellow-eyed demon said, smiling.   
  
***  
  
They walked for what seemed like days, across landscapes that shifted unpredictably.  Hell was a dark cloud of demons in every direction.  It was off-kilter, wrong, a seat that had no comfortable spot on it; sleep never came and Azazel never talked.  When Sam protested, he simply took Sam by the arm and pulled him forward.  
  
Sam realized where he was being taken.  Like the night in Zion Grove when the yellow-eyed ones had possessed Jeremy and the others, the same cloud of lightning swirled in the sky ahead of them.  Emerging from the bottom of the cloud was a tower, taller than anything around them, thousands of feet high, Sam guessed.  Azazel steered Sam down the slope toward the base of tower and inside.  
  
It was the rebuilt tower from Taj's tarot card, and from his visions.  His mother was in there, he knew.    
  
"Now, you leave her be.  We have some people you'll want to meet even more."  
  
"Is my father here?"  
  
"Well of course he is.  We had a room waiting for _him_ ," Azazel chided.  
  
Sam had made his own decisions, and wondered how much of a traitor Dean would think he was.  Maybe Dean wouldn't find out, or find him at all.  
  
"But Daddy's not part of the deal, and really, neither is your mother," Azazel continued.  "You're late by several years – and she'll be a demon soon enough.  A very honored one, but we can't have human souls just wandering around down here, stinking up the place.  We run a tidy operation, Sam, spic and span, top to bottom."  He chuckled at his own joke.  
  
"Why not bring me here directly?  
  
"I do not question the actions of my Lord."  He sounded troubled by the question, but pulled his face back into a kind of confidence.  "It was His will that we search you out and His will to bring only you to us.   He's the one that found you, after all, in all of God's creation, and after so long.  We have always believed in you, Sam, and until Salina, we believed in your brother Dean as well. Now the heretics have been blessed and the believers of old will suffer."  
  
"Where is my brother?"   
  
"ENOUGH!"   
  
_That was fear. Do they fear him, or me?_  
  
***  
  
The gates of the tower were immense, and by the time they had arrived at the stairs that led to them, he could see they rose thirty feet high and were almost as wide.  The dark material had fires within it, small bits of fire that flickered as he passed into the tower.  Azazel pushed Sam ahead of him into the Great Hall.      
  
Other yellow-eyed demons, who seemed to be in key positions everywhere in the tower, took Sam from him, and steered him left and down a hall.  He looked back at Azazel, who said only "start working on him; I'll be back."    
  
_I need a distraction like the one in Belleville -- Dean?  Just get close to-_ He stopped and looked around instinctively for the partner he relied on, and was alone on his path once more.  
  
"Are we going to start with pain, insanity, fear, or hatred?  Which would you prefer, Sam Winchester?" asked the demon.  
  
"Let's start with hatred," Sam replied, and felt a hand on his shoulder, gentle and comforting.  
  
"Do you know how much I love you?" said John's voice.  
  
"Dad!" He spun around to find John smirking at him below his black demon eyes.  "What did they do to you?"  
  
"Did it to myself, Sam.  Made a deal of my own, when you were still young.  Ten years and then they take me, leave you out of it."  
  
"What?! Dad you-  you wouldn't – you're not John."    
  
"I was once, and back then I would have been just as disgusted at what _you've_ become – letting your brother lie with you, rutting with him like some…"  His face softened into a broad smile that lit up the corners of his eyes.  "But it seems just the sort of first step into Hell that you needed."  
  
Sam swung hard and struck his father's jaw from the right, sending him staggering back against the wall.    
  
"Little shit –" John said, waving his hand out at Sam, then hesitating when his power had little effect.  He returned to his demon appearance and left the room to find his master.  The guards threw Sam up against the ceiling and he lay pinned, pulled upward the way the sky had pulled on him before.    
  
Sam struggled to get down as they stared at him, disconcerted.  While they muttered about how he was unaffected by their power and what exactly he might be, Sam concentrated on a memory of his father, in Tennessee, holding him after he returned from a long trip to Knoxville.    
  
_You made it all this time without me just fine, right?  
  
Yeah, Dad, I did okay.    
_  
John hugged him tight, but in the hug he imagined, it became Dean who held him, and they fell free – landing on the floor in front of the demons.  Sam scrambled to his feet as they stared in disbelief then lunged at him.  Their hesitation gave him a second to brace himself and drive his boot at the chest of the first demon.  He was tackled by the other one, losing his balance, and used that fall to roll the demon over top of him and onto the floor.    
  
He seemed evenly matched to these demons, which worried him.  He pulled the second one from the floor in a chokehold and forced him to open the door, then left both behind unconscious.  He headed up the stairs, losing count after a hundred hallways had passed him.  Outside the windows now, the boiling mass of black smoke and fire and electricity was close against the building.  He knew he was almost to his mother.  
  
Nothing stopped him, but he was already in Hell; they didn't need a trap.   
  
***  
  
Sam ducked into the shadows of an open cell when the cry went up and felt a fiery grip close on his neck, pulling him into the back corner.  
  
"Is he here?  Did you bring him?" whispered the desperate voice he'd heard in the Other Place.  
  
"No, Mom. He was supposed to come, not me."    
  
"And what will you do now?  Azathunn will never let me leave."  
  
"Azathunn – the Fire Demon? We… he promised he would free you."    
  
The grip loosened but Mary let her hand drop only as far as his chest, and kept it there.  
  
"You made a deal, didn't you?"  Her voice could barely conceal the fear and disappointment.  
  
"It's not a promise we intend to keep.  I'll get you and Dad out, and Dean will find a way to save me.  I can do this, I know.  I feel stronger here."  
  
She took his hand softly and raised it to her lips.  Her kiss was warm on his hand, and he felt the tears on her face.   
  
"He lost you for years after I died.  I thought you'd be safe, until John came to the Tower."  
  
Mary touched him to take more memories of his life with John, with the Widow.  He felt them go and gave them gladly.  She saw Dean, on the landing overseeing his nightclub, and in his office -- his face in Sam's hands, an inch away.   Sam jumped back, ashamed, pushing her hand off.  
  
"Every day he told me stories about how important you are."  Her hand was back on his chest again, calming him.  "Every time I woke John and Dean with my screams, it was Azathunn in me, showing me what you and your brother did, the promise you both made, how long you'd been wandering the world together….   
  
"Mom, I don’t know what you're talking about but I came to get you out-"   
  
"My _remarkable_ Samuel…" she said, her voice richer, full of love and pride.    
  
He was immobile under her touch.  He'd wondered all his life about his mother and now - _I can save you, I know it._  
  
"Always believe in your brother, Samuel, because no one else will, least of all Dean himself.  You need him with you as much as you need to find your way alone, because he's the only one who can save you.  Not me, not John, not even God now, only you and your brother.  Dean is your weakness, but he's also your strength."  And then her grip became tight, painful.  "But listen to me, Samuel, you've put it all in danger coming here.  They fear you and your brother together.  Whatever you do, find a way out, soon – do whatever you have to do to get back to Dean."   
  
"Mom, I have to get you and Dad out-"  
  
"No, Samuel, get yourself out, get back to Dean.  No matter what they offer you."  She turned in panic, then said, "He's coming.  Leave.  Get out, you have the key.  Use it, Sam, now, _please_!"   
  
Azazel's eyes glowed behind Mary, two points of light in the dark room.  Another presence swept around them, hot and hateful and all too familiar.    
  
"Sam,  I hope your little side trip was illuminating," said the yellow eyes.  "But we have a deal – you send your mother to her rest after so many years of torment."    
  
Sam held Mary close to him, his long arms enfolding her.  
  
"Use the power I left in you," said the flames of Azathunn rising around him, and he began to see what had become of his mother, as the light grew.  
  
 _Samuel, let me BE.  I will be just one more demon in the world.  Without you and your brother, God fails again, the war spreads, and humanity falls._  
  
 _No, Mom.  Not you.  Not after all you've suffered.  I can make it right, even if it takes forever._  
  
 _Then remember, Samuel – Azathunn has a brother too._  
  
He held her tight and loved her and forgave her and healed her.  She glowed, as the figure in the forest had, and then she was gone.  Darkness closed in so hot and close as he'd never known.    
  
"Is she safe?"    
  
"She's not in Hell anymore.  You _saved_ her.  Are you proud?" Azazel taunted.  "I hope I see her again some day."  
  
Flames in Sam's blood from before he was born reignited.  He was angry.  He needed to find John.  
  
"And where are you going?" asked Azazel as Sam moved.    
  
"To set my father free."    
  
"No, Sam.  Our deal was clear," said Azazel coldly.    
  
"Forget the deal, you merchant!" Azathunn rumbled in the small cell, and Azazel cowered back for a moment.    
  
Sam pushed past them both.  
  
***    
  
"My Lord-" Azazel began, when Sam had left.   
  
Azathunn laughed over his objections:  "A merchant and a legalist, just like your brothers in Heaven."  Noting the deep pain on Azazel's face, he added: "Do you think the Host of Heaven is so unlike you? You've forgotten your own kind.  No Azazel, I've decided to let him fail on his own – that comes naturally to each of us, even your kinsman Lucifer."  
  
"We have a common interest in ending the Recurrence, as you have always said, my Lord, but the angels–"  
  
"Lucifer chose the path away, as did I, as did Sam.   We abandon the Task, or we fight and fight again, and we kill, if necessary.  Dean will do what Michael did, and what my brother did, and choose the path of weakness, of empty submission and hopelessness, and he will be our first and our last victim."  
  
"My lord, that the Angel Lucifer… – that is a heresy even I have never tolerated."  
  
"HAVE I EVER LIED?"  the Fire Demon thundered, putting a crack in the tower walls.   
  
***  
  
Sam searched a hundred more floors, each a new ring of hell.  He finally seized a demon by the throat and thought of his father; the demon writhed in pain, its eyes glowing yellow like Azazel's.  Sam dropped him in shock, and the demon ran ever higher on the stairs until Sam, following, had lost sight of him.  When Sam found him again, the doors on either side of the final landing were the only two doors to choose.    
  
"DAD!" he yelled, and a scream echoed back from the room on the right, his father's voice.   
  
John was under the knife, more than six years now, holding out against even the truth of what he'd done to save Sam.  Sam burst in, anger rising further, and attacked the demon holding the blade.  His fist struck the demon in the neck and it crumpled, unconscious.  
  
"Dad!" escaped Sam's mouth just once before he took in the blood and meat that he saw on the table and on the floor – and connected all of that with his father.  John lay motionless, his arms hanging limply off the table; a heavy red drop clung to each fingertip.  He was ready to face his many-thousandth death and return for more, but this was a new torment.  
  
"Images of my son now?" he rasped.  
  
Sam took John's blood-soaked hand, and knelt by him, laying his head across John's palm.  John could believe what his eyes and ears told him now and he hungered for memory.  He saw in Sam's mind the boy who crawled into bed on cold nights in the cabin, the young man who leaned over him in the hospital after the cave-in crushed his legs. And then he saw Dean in Lawrence, a strong young man.  He knew who it was instantly, and shook with joy and a rush of regrets.  His hand slid across Sam's face, leaving a bright red trail.  Sam felt the warm fingers on his cheek.    
  
Sam was crying freely now, for the first time in long while, but although he wished for his father to go free as his mother had, John simply lay there staring at him, taking him in.  
  
"Sam, you shouldn’t be here.  I bought your safety."  His voice was weak, but as deep and serious as ever.  He rested briefly from the effort. "The angels told me you'd be spared if I came in your place."  
  
"Angels?"    
  
"They were white light from Heaven, great wide wings on them; they found me on the road home from Knoxville and said that Heaven needed me to keep you safe, that they'd help me hold out ten years here and then take me to Mary."    
  
Sam couldn't comprehend the awful depths of that betrayal, but he raged inside.  
  
"I can set you free," he said finally, breathing faster, more fiercely as the pain grew.  
  
"How are you gonna do that, son?" John asked in anguish, pulling his hand from Sam's.  "You're trapped in here with me.  No one leaves Hell unless God himself comes to take you home."  
  
"Dean will find a way."  
  
"Dean…" John lost his composure and his face sagged.  He closed his eyes and saw his boy running into the fire, then his infant Samuel in his arms as they fled from Lawrence.  "Do you love him, Samuel?"    
  
"Of course, Dad.  He's my brother.  I got Mom out, I can get you out."   
  
"No, Sam, no you can't.  The angels won't let me go."    
  
"Nor will we, John," said Azazel, who was standing calmly behind Sam.  "You have many more deaths to give us."  
  
Sam leaned over, took his father's head in his hands and kissed his forehead, as his father had kissed him and Dean, when things were safe, and forgiven.   Sam summoned up the power he'd felt inside himself before Mary vanished, but there was nothing left to call up.    
  
He wept again as his father died before him.  
  
  


  
  
_December 5, 1874    Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
Abelia reappeared late that night, after Dean had run out of lists and memories and had finally stopped talking.  He was half-dressed, his shirt drying on the radiator, his hair in wild spikes from toweling it to distract himself.  He was looking out the window onto Front Street, the curtains pulled back just a couple of inches, watching carriages pull up to the front of the hotel.  Every tall young man, every coachman in boots and a black coat got a longer stare, but they were never the one he was hoping for.   
  
"You didn't get your mother or father out."  
  
He jumped at the harshness in her voice.  
  
"Even the mighty Dean Winchester, brothel owner, would-be hunter, a man who can fight and lie with the best of them, and you blew your one chance."  
  
Dean bit his lip – hard – and shook off her all-too-accurate portrait.  
  
"Are all you _elderly_ gods such a pain the ass?"  
  
"You didn't tell me about Malachi," Abelia stated.  "That was impolite."    
  
"I wouldn't call him a friend – or an angel, at the moment," Dean countered. "Is he okay?"  
  
"He's fine. He's a man of God, as are we."  
  
Dean turned abruptly at her phrasing.  Around his neck, his small golden amulet swung from a leather cord, its grim, contorted face and horns a perfect match for how Dean felt.  
  
It rested against his chest day and night.  He hadn't taken it off since he found it a week after Sikeston. Molly's gift had become Sam's gift, a shared treasure now.   Abelia froze at the sight of the amulet, then looked slowly up at Dean, who assumed, from experience, that the effect he was having was purely physical.  
  
"Where did you get that?  Do you know what that is?  Give it to me, please?" spilled from her all in one long question.  
  
Puzzled, Dean looked down and then back at her.     
  
"My amulet?  Sam gave it to me – well, Molly first, then Sam."  
  
A short moan of pain escaped her mouth as her eyes fixed on the amulet.  
  
"May I ...?" she asked, reaching out.  
  
Dean shrugged, watching her approach carefully.  
  
In Abelia's face Dean saw sadness that reminded him of Sam's death and the apparition he'd seen as Sam vanished -- solitude and sorrow and rage without a target.  She reached slowly for the amulet, then paused.  
  
"Oh, he was never so ugly as that," she whispered, her voice full of love and hurt.  "Why did they make him that way?"  
  
Dean was unprepared for this moment of tender sharing to be happening at all, here and now, with Abelia, in Memphis, with a dead brother and a towel around his waist.  But the next second, things changed forever.  
  
When Abelia's fingers touched the amulet, Dean saw a flash of what he'd seen before as Sam burned – a gigantic figure, a warrior god trying to stop Sam's death – what he'd told himself was his own mind, his grief personified.  The room seemed to bend outward in every dimension to accommodate the size, the energy that pressed against Dean's mind.  Dean felt his mind bending outward too, and then everything was back the way it had been – except for Abelia.  
  
A different figure stood before him now, cradling the amulet in its red-tipped fingers.  Armor, feathers, animal skins, and a deep rust-red band across his eyes – a man like Dean had never seen.  A man, though, that was clear, almost identical to Dean in stature.   
  
"This world is indeed mysterious, that you should find the only image of my brother that humans ever made."  
  
Dean backed away slightly. The man removed his mask and headpiece, showing the same dark hair and eyes as Abelia, the same brown skin.   
  
"It's still me, Dean."  
  
He looked at Dean as the amulet slipped out of his reach; Dean found himself on the receiving end of a powerful charisma, the kind he'd felt in the club.  
  
"I saw you before…" and Dean was at a loss for words, briefly.  _Fit this back together, Dean, come on!_  
  
"In Sikeston.  I failed you there, as I often have by underestimating him, and you. I came as quickly as possible but my brother is devious.  You might say he invented that trait."    
   
"Your _brother_?  Is what took Sam?  The Fire Demon?"  Dean's head felt like it was still stretching, each question a staccato of disbelief.  
  
"He is Azathunn, the All-Consuming."  
  
"Do you have some great nickname too?" Dean joked, the only response left in him at the end of that very long day.  
  
"Call me Tez."  
  
***   
  
"Send me back.  I get it now; it was practice.  I failed.  So I get back up and try again."    
  
"How oddly human.  Yes, practice.  So it was."  
  
"If you did it once, you can send me back to Hell again.  Put me in front of Sam.  I know what to do this time."  
  
Tez's brow furrowed with doubt, and he shook his head.  
  
"Lakes of fire.  Pitchforks.  I don't care, I'm ready.  Just get me to Sam this time."  He squared his shoulders, his eyes wide.  
  
"Without your shirt?" Tez asked, raising an eyebrow.  
   
"Now or never," he said, grabbing his shirt and slipping into it.  
  
"You can't fail this time, Dean.  There won't be another.  If he knows I've helped you, Sam will die and so will you."  
  
"Tez… Now!"  
  
Tez put his hands up to Dean's face as Abelia had, drawing his fingers across Dean's eyes.  The red on them smeared across Dean's face like a birthmark and Dean was elsewhere –  the street, in front of the hotel.  The nighttime was empty and silent.  Tez towered over him again, immense in the moonlight, then drove his hand into the ground, tearing it open, knocking Dean into the crack as it widened.  He fell, watching Tez vanish above him.    
  
Tez stood for a moment in the empty room at the hotel.  He sighed wearily and closed his eyes.   
  
"I hope this one convinces you to give up, Dean.  I can't keep re-inventing Hell."  
  
***  
  
Dean woke in Hell, a more familiar corner lit with sulfurous fires all around.  Human souls cried in agony, strung on hooks that stretched into the distance and tugged at their flesh.  He looked as far as he could see in the dim light, but the damned were all around in endless numbers.  Those closest to him begged for release, but there were so many and their chains withdrew them before his grasp.  
  
"SAM!" sounded so quiet, muffled by the screams around him.  He cried his brother's name louder as the heat built.  
  
Demons appeared around him, eyes black.  One with a red glow in her eyes like the woman in the coach stepped forward.  
  
"Well - _Dean Winchester_ , how did you get here?  Humans don't just walk in."  
  
"I have an amulet," he bluffed, holding up his closed fist.  
  
"Well you certainly had dumb luck – until you got here; how noble to sacrifice yourself for a brother who no longer needs you."  
  
Dean resisted a very powerful temptation to punch the red-eyed demon in the face.   
  
"No, noble's not the right word – _foolish_ is the word I wanted.  Up there, your world still reels from the pain of a war between brothers, and down here, we're ready to make the pain worse.  Starting by putting Sam where he belongs – on the Throne."  
  
"Sam won't be your King," Dean said with certainty.  
  
"He's failed at everything else, hasn't he? He couldn't save your mother, or your father; you saw the tragic results of that.  If only you had come to Hell first…." A misplaced smile on her face brought his anger to the surface.  
  
"Take me to him now," he growled.    
  
"Absolutely.  He'll probably want to welcome you himself.  And explain why Azathunn chose him over you.  Walk with me, Dean.  It isn't far."    
  
She slipped an arm round his elbow and they headed across the rocky ground toward a tower bigger than any Dean had seen on Earth.  
  
The demon led him by the long and scenic route and succeeded in turning his stomach more than once.   
  
"Do you have any-"  
  
"No, Dean.  We did give out water, but people tried to put out the flames with it," she sneered.  
  
He swung this time, and she went down, cursing him.  
  
"Find your own way, human," she yelled.  
  
"Yeah, I think I'll try the big tower right in front of me," Dean said, frustration taking over.  
  
She smiled, then vanished.  
  
***  
There were no guards at the tower's gates, no one to stop him.  
  
The hall Dean entered was enormous and oven-like from the flames that lit it on all sides.  He spotted Sam instantly at the far end and lost all concern –  the past was undone and his nightmare was dissolving.  
  
"Sam!"  
  
Sam turned from the demons he was with, and strode over to Dean immediately, smiling broadly.  
  
"You made it.  'Bout time."  His tone was relaxed, even welcoming, and it deceived Dean long enough.  
  
"Sam, what are you doing here?"  
  
"This is what God wants."  
  
A hot panic rose inside Dean.    
  
"I came to get you out.  Tez, well, Abelia – same thing, turns out – he sent me in."  
  
"Get me out? Like you got Mom out?" Sam asked derisively.  
  
"She was -    
  
"Relax, Dean, I didn't do any better.  Mother!  Come here."  Sam's imperious voice summoned a woman from the side of the hall.    Mary, looking like her young, human self, took Sam's arm.    
  
"Dean.  Back again?  To stay I hope," she said, running her hand up and down his arm affectionately as her eyes flashed yellow.  
  
"Sam, what's going on?  You come with me now."  
  
"No, Dean, that's just the point.  I want you here – I made a new deal."    
  
"Are you nuts?" Dean asked, believing it already.  Sweat was running down his back in spidery streams.  
  
"I finally figured out why we keep failing, Dean – because we're not willing to take chances.  So I did.  Sorry I couldn't tell you, but now we're all here, I get the throne (and get to live), I kill you – no don't worry, here's the best part -- and you ascend to Heaven.  Things fall into place."    
  
"You're insane."   
  
"Well, it is a little hot in here."    
  
"May I get John?" Mary asked, and Sam nodded toward the doors of the hall.  
  
"I won't let you do this," Dean pleaded.  
  
"Yes, you will. You always do.  You're about to do it right now," Sam said, almost absently.  
  
"Let me stay. You go up to Heaven.  Stop their plan before they start," Dean burst out, willfully not listening to Sam's calm voice, or even his own insane ramblings.  
  
"And there you are, Dean Bennett or Campbell or Winchester, in all your predictable glory.  But _I'm_ the only one who can make things right, Dean.  It's bigger than us.  We just play the parts and destiny handles the rest."  
  
"I didn't grow up as your brother, I know that. I might have kicked some sense into your sorry ass if I had, but this is not God's plan, Sam, it's just demon lies.  Come with me!"   
  
He grabbed Sam, but Sam swung his arm around and pinned Dean against him.    "I love you, Dean, but you need to go now."    
  
Sam kissed him, longer and more painfully than Dean could bear, and when Sam opened his eyes again, they burned yellow.  
  
"Burn him," Sam said to the guards at his side.  He shoved Dean to the ground and stalked toward the throne.  
  
"Sam, I'll stay with you!"  Dean shouted his last desperate offer, as sweat ran down face.  He was soaked in it, and getting hotter.  
  
"Too late for that, brother."  
  
Dean was dragged to the back of the hall, close to where Sam climbed to his throne.  Azathunn – pure fire now – erupted out of the floor, and even the demons scattered, averting their faces at the sight of their God.  Sam stood patiently as the flames licked around Dean.    
"My brother, a gift for you," he said, and Dean was encased in the fire before he could escape.  
  
He didn't lose consciousness as he had in the ice; every fiber of his body went first, then his soul began to burn.  He knew Sam was there, but he got no reply, no matter how much he called for him.  
  
  


 

  
_July 17, 1875   Memphis, Tennessee_  
  
In the dim light of the ward, women volunteers moved silently among the doctors and nurses, wiping sweat from the brows of the patients while their own sweat soaked their clothing and made their hair stick together in stringy clumps.    
  
The heat was nearly intolerable that day, and several volunteers had fainted, but one seemed inured to the oppressive humidity, and sang songs for the sick – sweet ones for the children, who smiled; bawdy ones, softly, for the men, who smiled like children.       
  
The job was just what she needed – a way to occupy herself until her husband arrived – and in a month she had pulled the hospital into tight and efficient shape.  "Indispensable" said some of the doctors and nurses, "formidable" said those who crossed her.  Few thought of her as a volunteer any longer.     
  
When she finished her day's work, she went to the end of the upper floor hallway and asked, once more, to be allowed into the ward.       
  
"He's unreachable," said the nurse on duty.  "They think now it's the yellow fever but he isn't showing all the signs yet, just temperature, and delirium.  We had two like him last month, but they were lucid at least.  Cholera, then smallpox, and now this – if ever a city has suffered its share of demons...."     
  
"His name is Winchester? Are you certain?"     
  
"Samuel Winchester, but there's no record of anyone by that name in Memphis.  It's a common enough name though."     
  
"I'd only need a moment, Sister."    
  
"Strict quarantine until they know if it's Yellow Jack," she said firmly.  "Even for you," the nurse added, with as sympathetic a smile as she could muster under the woman's iron gaze.     
  
***     
  
There was a long time during the nights at the hospital, after visitations and dinnertime, when the staff let their attention turn from the suffering patients to lighter thoughts, or to prayers or mundane pleasures.  Some talked about the mystery patient and what ailed him.  The rumor was that he'd been pulled from a fire at a hotel in the city; others had heard he simply appeared on Front St., his mind already overheated, like his body. Tired of the gossip, the volunteer retreated to an empty bench upstairs.  It was warmer, but quieter – quiet enough to hear faint cries from the new patient.      
  
A man came up the stairs that evening, a young doctor, and passed by the volunteer as she sat thinking of ways to get past the sister at the desk. In her month at the hospital she hadn't seen this doctor before, but many visiting physicians came through town now the fever had arrived.      
  
"Won't you come with me," he said graciously, and she ignored him completely until he repeated it and stepped closer, extending his hand.     
  
The man was tall, with black eyes like hers, and close-cropped black hair that accented his strong features.  He wore gloves already, and offered her a fresh mask and gloves of her own.      
  
"Come along. You're needed."     
  
She stood up, taking the gloves and mask, uncertain what he intended.  The mask made the heat seem even more unbearable, but when they came to the sister at the end of the hall, she stood to unlock the ward door quietly, and returned to her desk, unconcerned.    
  
The room held only the one patient, Samuel Winchester, strapped to the bed with restraints normally used on the insane or the criminal.  He was tugging at them violently and calling out the name they'd given him, "Sam," but his voice had long since worn down to a broken version of what it once was – no less devastating to those who heard it.     
  
The woman stared in disbelief, then raced to his side, pulling her mask away.    He writhed under the blankets, red and drenched with sweat, radiating a heat she could feel from an arm's length away.  Across his eyes was a reddish band, one of the symptoms the doctors had found most confounding, but it was him, she knew.   
  
"Mr. Campbell!" she cried. "What demon torments you?"    
  
His eyes opened, sightless at first.  He called for Sam a few more times, looking around in the stifling dimness of the room, then saw the woman over him.    
  
"Mr. Campbell!" she said again, then whispered a short and silent prayer.    
  
He focused on her, his brain burned by fever.  _Someone I know._  
  
He looked again, eyes blinking wildly and tried to hug her, but the straps held.  
  
  "Molly? _Molly!_ "  
  
***  
    
She left him only briefly, to find the doctor who'd let her in but was now gone.  She found another doctor in charge, and dragged him upstairs because "the Winchester man is talking".  Dean's fever had passed, and when the staff saw him, they wondered that his recovery was so sudden.  Only the dark reddish band remained across his eyes, and for some time.     
  
Dean dozed again and awoke that night, free from the restraints. A meal waited beside him, but he couldn't eat. Molly had returned after her shift, and was wiping his face with a cool cloth.  He hugged her and said nothing for over an hour.  She never let go as his emotions overtook him, one upon the next, rage and terrible fear, and hopelessness, and finally he subsided into silence again.  His embrace loosened.  
  
"Mr. Campbell,-" she began.  
  
"Winchester.  It's my name."  
  
"Are you in trouble?  Where is Samuel?"  
  
He looked at her and then at the floor. "He's gone."  
  
She knew his meaning and the expression on his face; she refrained from asking how.  But he told her anyway and she crossed herself more than once as she listened.  As he went on, he grew increasingly scattered and sad, and she took his hand to steady him.  At Sikeston, where his story ended, cleansed of angels and demigods and Hell, he wept.  In all their years together, he'd never cried, not even when his club, his whole life before Sam, was destroyed by fire.   
  
"Mr. …Winchester.  Where do you go now?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"You will stay with me and Steven. For a while at least."  
  
"You found one worth marrying?"  
  
"It was, I admit, a long shot.  He's not a hunter.  But it seems you've become one."  
  
"What do I do, Molly?"  
  
"You share the rest of that story when you're ready.  Don't think I didn't notice that you left out a year since you lost Samuel.  I'm sure you've been to Hell and back, but I am your friend forever and you can surely find the strength to tell me, once you've recovered.  It hasn't been so long since we parted ways that you can't talk to me, you know.  But for now, you walk on.  Clearly you need to be set back on the path on your own two feet, and I can do that much for you."  
  
***  
  
 _July 20, 1875_  
  
As they left the hospital, Molly's husband waved a jolly hello from the seat of their carriage, an impressive, luxurious model.  
  
"Just sign out here, if you would," said the doctor, handing Dean a clipboard.    
  
"You!"    
  
The dark-eyed man studied Dean closely for a long while.   
  
"Why do you still care about him?" Tez asked finally.  
  
"You have a brother, you should know."  
  
"No, Dean, I lost mine forever, just like you have."    
  
"I'll find a way to him."    
  
"There is no way, Dean.  There's no remedy for what he is or what he did.  He can't come back and Hell won't have you – you learned that yourself the hard way.  Take a minute, take ten years.  Bury him, bury yourself and move on."  
  
Dean bled again from wounds Sam had left in him when he burned.   
  
"You're no better than a demon," he said.  "I hope I never see you again."  
  
"And you're no better than me, Dean Winchester, human or not.  We fail – spectacularly – when given the chance.  Keep that amulet around your neck. At least my brother won't find you."  
  
Tez turned and stepped out of the world for a while.  
  
  


 

  
"The Yellow-Eyed race is created in me, chosen and raised above all other demons for my faith in Azathunn, gifted with His all-consuming fire, and charged with carrying out His plan."  
  
Azazel paused to silence the red-eyed demons with a look.    
  
"And now it's yours, Samuel, by God's own will," came the deep-throated voice of the flames.  
  
The thrones were in front of them in the tower's great hall – Azathunn's, now abandoned, and the absent Lucifer's seat, and Sam's own, waiting for him.   
  
"You'll make it right, Samuel Winchester," Azazel spoke into Sam's ear. "You'll take your seat next to the others when we've made you ready."  
  
"It's what God wants; it's the balance he has always sought," said Azathunn, his voice a ferocious howling fire that was no longer concealed.    
  
Azazel leaned closer, spoke more softly to Sam now. "As soon as Dean is in Heaven – and we're doing everything we can to move that along – it will all fall into place.  Save him by doing this, if you can save no one else in the world," said the demon, eyes flaring yellow.  
  
Sam closed his eyes and prayed.    
  
  


________

**THE END**


	15. Epilogue

_1875  
  
From the Last Will and Testament of Molly Hildebrand, wife of Simon Hildebrand, attested while still of sound body and mind on the 8th of November, 1875, in Shelby County, Tennessee.  _  
  
 _[…]_  
  
You may wonder why I ask you to burn everything upon my death, including this document, after reading it.  There is, in our wonderful universe, a kind of remedy for evil, but like all remedies, it is bitter, even toxic, and has unintended side effects.  It has claimed a man I loved like a brother, and the man he loved – his true brother.       
  
So burn my documents, my letters, my photos to the last one and leave me on that pyre.  When all is done, put the ashes out well.  Were I not already free of religion's hold, my life would have left me close to that state, but if you still hold some measure of faith, let me take that from you.       
  
Know that God makes mistakes sometimes, and we humans make worse ones.  Know that without what our heretic friend called The Recurrence, we will suffer greatly at the hands of demons, and perhaps worse, at the hands of their angelic brothers and sisters, who have betrayed us for a deeper enmity than I ever imagined.  Know that God's remedy has failed, and that what protected us from the evils of the world beyond has been lost, and will not return to this place as it should.       
  
I miss my husband, Simon, and my friend when no one else could be, Dean Winchester, and his most charming brother Samuel, whom I last saw carrying his brother toward the train station in Salina fully two years ago.  Simon I have lost to Heaven, Samuel to Hell, and Dean - Dean is lost here on Earth.    
  
 _[…]_


	16. Soundtrack for Remedy for Cain

[**Soundtrack for _Remedy for Cain_ by write_light**](http://write-light.livejournal.com/164614.html)  
  
 **16 songs, 60:06 total time** **\- there is currently no single download - visit my Livejournal for the individual files which you can preview and download. :)**  
  
I hope you'll download this soundtrack (or the individual songs that interest you) and give them a listen!  This soundtrack was put together right along with the story and evolved into its current form over the past year.  As on the [**previous soundtrack for _Santa Fe & Iron_**](http://write-light.livejournal.com/86244.html) **,** there is a mix of folk songs and 70s rock.  The folk and rock are not as directly tied to Sam and Dean (respectively) as in the first story, but they still represent the two personalities of the Winchester brothers.   
  
SPECTACULAR Cover Art by [](http://seleneheart.livejournal.com/profile)[**seleneheart**](http://seleneheart.livejournal.com/)  - please compliment her in the Master Art Post.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

    
    
     **Song                                  Artist                             Time
    Take the Devil (From My Mind)         Eagles                             4:02
    Requiem (instrumental)                Opeth                              1:12
    Long, Long Way From Home              Foreigner                          2:57
    Lungs                                 Townes Van Zandt                   2:29
    Lost Highway                          Jeff Buckley                       4:23
    Highway (Killing Me)                  Foghat                             3:51
    A Man I'll Never Be                   Boston                             6:38
    Where I Lead Me                       Townes Van Zandt                   2:52
    Back Door                             Kansas                             4:24
    In My Own Way                         The Marshall Tucker Band           7:01
    Am I Born To Die?                     Mason Brown  & Chipper Thompson     4:00
    Holy Water                            Bad Company                        4:10
    Over and Over                         Black Sabbath                      5:27
    The Proposition #1                    Nick Cave & Warren Ellis           3:25
    My Most Meaningful Relationships ****The Late Cord                      6:58**
    **Are With Dead People
    Nothin'                               Townes Van Zandt                   3:28**
    

***  
  
Much LOVE to Townes Van Zandt, dead these many years from drug overdose at a young age, and very much an odd man in the world of music.  He is a genius of melody and of truly creative and original, meaningful lyrics.  I used three of his songs on the first soundtrack, and three more here.  Love also to Nick Cave and Warren Ellis for their atmospheric songs, and the Eagles for the original inspiration.  
  
Please let me know if you enjoy the soundtrack or any of the songs in particular.  It can be listened to before, during or after reading, although I think it really adds to the story.  
  
  
 **Soundtrack for Remedy for Cain by write_light**  
16 songs, 60:06 total time - there is currently no single download - above are the individual files which you can preview and download. :)  
  
 **Prologue ||[Take the Devil (From My Mind) || Eagles](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=P6MONZKG)**  
  
 _Open up your eyes, take the devil from your mind,  
He's been holdin' on to you and you're so hard to find.  
The wind outside is cold, restless feelin' in my soul  
Temptin' me to get away but there's no place a man can go.  
  
You are the one, oh, how could you be so blind?  
The devil preys on runaways, he's never far behind.  
The many years that I've tried now have been revealed to me,  
Closer is the love you'll find waiting so patiently.  
  
Take the devil,  
Take the devil from your mind. _  
  
**Then ||[Requiem (instrumental) || Opeth](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=0M02HSWT)**  
  
 **Chapter 1 ||[Long, Long Way From Home || Foreigner](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=H3J89VU0)**  
  
 _It was my destiny, it`s what`s we needed to do  
They were telling me, I`m telling you  
  
I was inside looking outside  
The millions of faces, but still I`m alone  
Waiting, I was ever waiting  
Paying a penance, I was longing for home  
  
I`m looking out for the two of us  
I hope we`ll be here when they`re through with us_  
  
 **Chapter 2 ||[Lungs || Townes Van Zandt](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=ZM3WKW53)**  
  
 _Salvation sat and crossed herself  
called the Devil partner  
Wisdom burned upon a shelf  
who`ll kill the raging cancer  
Seal the river at its mouth  
take the water prisoner  
Fill the sky with screams and cries  
bathe in fiery answers  
  
Jesus was an only son  
and love his only concept  
strangers cry in foreign tongues  
and dirty up the doorstep  
and I for one, and you for two  
ain't got the time for outside  
just keep your injured looks to you  
we`ll tell the world we tried_  
  
 **Chapter 3 ||[Lost Highway || Jeff Buckley](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=5HPO2M4J)**  
  
 _I was just a lad, nearly twenty-two,  
Neither good nor bad, just a kid like you,  
And now I`m lost, too late to pray,  
Lord, I`ve paid the cost on the lost highway.  
  
Now, boys, don`t start your ramblin` round,  
On this road of sin or you`re sorrow bound.  
Take my advice or you`ll curse the day  
You started rollin` down that lost highway_  
  
 **Chapter 4 ||[Highway (Killing Me) || Foghat](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=5IOGWB7K)**  
  
 _Looking out the window, not a thing to see  
Only my reflection staring back at me  
I close my eyes and wonder how long it's gonna be  
I know I've got to travel but the highway's killing me  
  
I get so weary, how can I rest?  
The road is rocky and I feel so depressed  
I close my eyes and wonder how long it's gonna be  
I know I've got to travel but the highway's killing me _  
  
**Chapter 5 ||[A Man I'll Never Be || Boston](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=8GHCQIUN)**  
  
 _If only I could find a way, I`d feel like I`m the man you believe I am  
And it gets harder every day for me, to hide behind this dream you see  
A man I`ll never be_  
  
 _I can`t get any stronger, I can`t climb any higher  
You`ll never know just how hard I`ve tried  
Cry a little longer, and hold a little tighter  
Emotions can`t be satisfied  
  
You look up at me, and somewhere in your mind you see  
A man I`ll never be_  
  
 **Chapter 6 ||[Where I Lead Me || Townes Van Zandt](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=YAQL3PFT)**  
  
 _Where I lead me I will travel  
Where I need me I will call me  
I'm no fool, I'll be ready  
God knows I will be  
And in the meantime make a little money  
And buy a little mercy  
  
Met this morning, now he loves me  
Says he loves me  
It must be easy, look around you  
all around you  
But you see the motion, you're not movin'  
You don't know how to hold on  
Just keep it loose  
Don't get excited, it'll pass before long  
  
Now one is goin' one is stayin'  
One is silent one is saying'  
Here's your coat, take care of yourself  
Sorry you're leavin'  
A little sad you're all I had  
Will you be returnin'?  
  
The boys upstairs are gettin' hungry  
You can shout in the wind about how it will be  
or you can clench your fist, shake your head  
And head to the country  
I got no doubt about it my friend  
That's where they'll find me  
That's where they're gonna find me  
  
Ask the boys down in the gutter  
Now they won't lie cause you don't matter  
The street's just fine if you're good and blind  
But it ain't where you belong  
Roll down your sleeves, pick up your money  
and carry yourself home  
Roll down your sleeves, pick up your money  
and carry yourself home_  
  
 **Chapter 7 ||[Back Door || Kansas](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=BU1HMDEN)**  
  
 _As I look out in the night  
and count the stars all shining bright  
I wonder where I am and where I'm going  
Sometimes I think I've lived before  
I seem to see beyond the door  
But it's just a crazy notion I leave showing  
I live my life as sensitive as possible then one day  
Maybe I'll wake up young again  
with feelings of a new day  
  
But what we feel I know we'll, miss  
and someday I'll look back at this  
And know by then the life that we were meant for... but are you leaving?  
Leaving my back door_  
  
 _You want the world to give you some  
you fight a war that's never won and you  
Come back scarred 'cause you've seen who's really dying  
You reach a point where nothing lasts  
you play a part that someone casts you into  
Now their machines keep right on lying  
I want the world to be a place where no one comes to suffer  
Just give the pain an empty place  
away from one another  
  
Let's seal our words with a kiss  
'cause someday we'll look back at this  
We'll know by then the life that we were meant for... but are you leaving?  
Leaving by my back door_  
  
 **Chapter 8 ||[In My Own Way || The Marshall Tucker Band](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=VC4NT2PO)**  
  
 _I know that sometimes you think I don't love you  
...but I can't act like we just met all the time  
And I can say without a doubt  
you're the only love I'll ever find  
And in my own way  
I love you  
And in my own way  
I need you  
And in my own way  
I've got to have your love  
There's a special place in my heart that's occupied by you  
There ain't no one on God's Earth gonna take your place_  
  
 **Chapter 9 ||[Am I Born To Die? || Mason Brown & Chipper Thompson](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=6U4GSYBI)**  
  
 _And am I born to die?  
To lay this body down  
And as my trembling spirit fly  
Into a world unknown  
  
A land of deepest shade  
Unpierced by human thought  
The dreary region of the dead  
Where all things are forgot  
  
Soon as from Earth I go  
What will become of me?  
Eternal happiness or woe  
Must then my fortune be_  
  
 **Chapter 10 ||[Holy Water || Bad Company](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=4CDQCSZO)**  
  
 _In my life, there's been changes  
But nothing seems to satisfy me the way you do, no  
You make it easy, the way you please me, everytime I'm close to you  
All this temptation, I can't see wrong from right  
It's a new sensation, you know I'm blinded by the light  
  
(Feels like) I'm walking on holy water  
Feels like I'm walking on sacred ground, baby  
(Feels like) I'm walking on holy water, every time (that) you come 'round  
  
You were all I ever wanted, never had a girl in my life 'til I met you, oh no  
I got a certain feeling, you got my senses reeling  
Whenever I get close to you  
You're my salvation, I found you just in time  
My one temptation, you know I can't believe you're mine_  
  
 **Chapter 11 ||[Over and Over || Black Sabbath](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=SI9J62BQ)**  
  
 _Sometimes I feel like I'm dying at dawn  
and sometimes I'm warm as fire  
But lately I feel like I'm just gonna rain  
and it goes over, and over, and over again, yeah  
  
Too many flames, with too much to burn  
and life's only made of paper  
Oh, how I need to be free of this pain  
but it goes over, and over, and over, and over again  
  
Yeah, sometimes I cry for the lost and alone  
and for their dreams that will all be ashes  
But lately I feel like I'm just gonna rain  
and it goes over, and over, and over, and over again_  
  
 **Chapter 12 ||[The Proposition #1 (instrumental) || Nick Cave & Warren Ellis](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=PP05H6S4)**  
  
  
 **Chapter 13 ||[My Most Meaningful Relationships Are With Dead People || The Late Cord](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=GQ9AFJGB)**  
  
 _Is it too far gone to be saved?  
Is it too far gone to be saved?  
And it's so remarkable  
that you found your own way.  
And it's so remarkable  
that you have nothing else to say._  
  
 **Epilogue ||[Nothin' || Townes Van Zandt](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=QSSEIF1F)**  
  
 _Hey mama, when you leave  
Don't leave a thing behind  
I don't want nothin'  
I can't use nothin'  
  
Take care into the hall  
And if you see my friends  
Tell them I'm fine  
Not using nothin'  
  
Almost burned out my eyes  
Threw my ears down to the floor  
I didn't see nothin'  
I didn't hear nothin'  
  
I stood there like a block of stone  
Knowin' all I had to know  
And nothin' more  
Man, that's nothin'  
  
As brothers our troubles are  
Locked in each others arms  
And you better pray  
They never find you  
  
Your back ain't strong enough  
For burdens doublefold  
They'd crush you down  
Down into nothin'  
  
Being born is going blind  
And buying down a thousand times  
To echoes strung  
On pure temptation  
  
Sorrow and solitude  
These are the precious things  
And the only words  
That are worth rememberin'_


	17. Thanks, Notes & Extras

**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS** (in alpha order)

  * to [](http://afg1.livejournal.com/profile)[**afg1**](http://afg1.livejournal.com/)   for regular handholding, story and character salvage, and last-minute editing
  * to [](http://aprylrae.livejournal.com/profile)[**aprylrae**](http://aprylrae.livejournal.com/)   for her generous and understanding beta work from start to finish, for insights into rural Tennessee life and legends, and for understanding exactly what I wanted to do in this fic
  * to [](http://gatorgrrrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**gatorgrrrl**](http://gatorgrrrl.livejournal.com/)   for such a sincere appreciation of the first story - it inspired me to keep pushing on with the sequels
  * to [](http://lavendergaia.livejournal.com/profile)[**lavendergaia**](http://lavendergaia.livejournal.com/)   for helping me focus when character troubles arose
  * to [](http://phantisma.livejournal.com/profile)[**phantisma**](http://phantisma.livejournal.com/)  , [](http://roque-clasique.livejournal.com/profile)[**roque_clasique**](http://roque-clasique.livejournal.com/)  , [](http://vashtan.livejournal.com/profile)[**vashtan**](http://vashtan.livejournal.com/)   and [](http://angstpuppy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angstpuppy**](http://angstpuppy.livejournal.com/)   - all and equally - for explicating the Tarot and tarot readings and thus saving me from making a complete hash of that scene
  * to [](http://seleneheart.livejournal.com/profile)[**seleneheart**](http://seleneheart.livejournal.com/)   (my artist) for the glorious artwork that exceeded anything I could have expected - for a second year, I was truly blessed with an artist who understood my vision
  * to [](http://tobemeagain.livejournal.com/profile)[**tobemeagain**](http://tobemeagain.livejournal.com/)   for encouragement
  * to [](http://wendy.livejournal.com/profile)[**wendy**](http://wendy.livejournal.com/)    & [](http://thehighwaywoman.livejournal.com/profile)[**thehighwaywoman**](http://thehighwaywoman.livejournal.com/)   for running [](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_j2_bigbang**](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/)   and [](http://omgspnbigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[**omgspnbigbang**](http://omgspnbigbang.livejournal.com/)   so well and for making this all possible
  * to [](http://wickedtruth.livejournal.com/profile)[**wickedtruth**](http://wickedtruth.livejournal.com/)   for keeping my story at the right emotional level, keeping the characters true, and for the plot bunny that started this whole thing



  
  
**HISTORICAL SOURCES & IMAGES**  
  
  
To get a sense of the clothing and styles of the time, I recommend (among others) [**Wapedia**](http://wapedia.mobi/en/1870s_in_fashion#2.)  and [**Gentlemen's Emporium**](http://www.gentlemansemporium.com/mens_victorian_outfits.php?from=leftnav).  
  
The best source of large, easily readable historical maps is the [**David Rumsey Map Collection**](http://www.davidrumsey.com/).  
  
To see some of the images that inspired parts of the story, go to [**THIS PICSPAM**](http://write-light.livejournal.com/168518.html).    
  
In particular, the photo albums of the [**William Cox Cochran Photographic Collection**](http://diglib.lib.utk.edu/cgi/i/image/image-idx?q1=wcc;sid=374f64b65bbb77af184c115f77289abf;type=boolean;rgn1=All%20Categories;view=thumbnail;med=1;start=81;corig=wcc;size=20;c=wcc) helped me see how East Tennessee looked in the time period of the story.  
  
The original story was blessed by finding [**_The Photo Album of Mary Campbell_**](http://www.salpublib.org/digitalarchive/Documents/D27/1.htm) \-- This was the literally breathtaking find that convinced me I had to write this story – over 120 pages of pictures from Salina and surrounding areas taken during the years of my story, AND from a woman named Mary Campbell. A true gift. Please take some time to look through these links to get the atmosphere of the place and time. It includes a few scenes that were exactly as I had imagined them - including [the view of the town from the train station as Sam might have seen it on his arrival](http://www.salpublib.org/digitalarchive/Documents/D27/10a.jpg) and [the view of Iron Avenue from the corner of Santa Fe](http://www.salpublib.org/digitalarchive/Documents/D27/16a.jpg).   
  
***  
  
DETAILS  
  
The prayer that Sam and Dean use in Ch. 8 is related to a skill taught and passed along in Appalachia and other places by people known as "[ **burn doctors**](http://www.nchealthandhealing.com/topic/1/)"  (scroll down to last entry on that page); essentially it is a kind of folk medicine and 'suggestive magic' that can lessen burn damage. It isn't used with demons as in this story, but with milder burns until medical help arrives. I've enhanced the power slightly in Sam, but the chant is authentic, say my sources.  
  
Sam and Dean's coach is a '[ **brougham**](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brougham_%28carriage%29)' - a small coach with an enclosed passenger area, a high front bench for the driver, and two horses, typically.  It would have been relatively uncommon in the time and place of the story for people like Sam and Dean, but considering its origins, they got themselves a sweet (if cramped) ride.  
  
There are real life Winchesters all over the Midwest, as generals, mayors, founders, and in city and street names, and so on.  It isn't as rare a name as you'd expect.  The most interesting Winchester is the town that disappeared.  Today, it's not to be found, but it was a tiny municipality just south of modern-day Sikeston.    
  
There is lore abounding from St. Louis south through the Cairo, IL area, through the brand new Reelfoot Lake (created by the New Madrid quake of 1821), down through New Madrid, Missouri, and the sandblows along the faultline of that quake.    
  
I kept to the geography of the places whenever possible, and a good map that covers the territory between Kansas City and Memphis is located [HERE](http://www.davidrumsey.com/luna/servlet/detail/RUMSEY%7E8%7E1%7E28739%7E1120964:Atlas-of-the-United-States--Delawar?qvq=w4s:/where/U.S.+Mid+West/;q:missouri+tennessee;lc:RUMSEY%7E8%7E1&mi=3&trs=7).  All cities are real (including Creve Coeur and Zion Grove) and most of the specific streets and buildings are as written in the story, including Florissant Seminary, the Cathedral de Sales in St. Louis, Front Street and the Gayoso Hotel in Memphis, and so on.  
  
***  
  
MYTHOLOGIES  
  
The history of Cain and Abel has been reinterpreted in many ways.  Some sites that informed my story were:  
  
[ **The Death of Cain: The World's First Murder**](http://www.aish.com/jl/48950551.html)  
  
[ **Having Left the Garden: Cain and Abel**](http://mikranet.cet.ac.il/pages/item.asp?item=18009%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20&kwd=5999)  
  
More than a little of the demigods came from [**THIS SITE**](http://www.plu.edu/%7Ewestgale/tezcatlipoca/home.html) \- although Tez is NOT equivalent to Tezcatlipoca.  
  
  
 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**  
  
For those with specific religious beliefs about Christianity, the story of Cain and Abel is presented directly from the Bible only once, in Ch. 4.  All other interpretations about who or what Cain and Abel represent are those I've run across in my research.  My interpretations of what God is, what Angels and Demons are, what else might be out there, and how each of these entities behaves -- are entirely of my mind and you're welcome to differ.   
  
This particular story evolved from two questions - one quite practical: " _Why is the Fire Demon in my first story after Sam and Dean?_ "  The other arose because at the time I was putting the story together, I really did think the show might end with 5x22.  I'm still not ready for it to end, so the question that drove my thinking was quite personal and selfish (although I think fans of the show would have the same hope):  " _What if there were **always** Winchesters?_ "    
  
This led to " _Why do the Show writers keep saying 'It HAS to be you, Sam/Dean'_?"  and then to _"What if this problem between brothers goes way back, back past the beginning of all things?"_   From there, I started wondering, _"What if Abel wasn't entirely innocent and we're getting only a butchered, repurposed version of the Cain and Abel legend?"_   In the Bible, after all, Abel never speaks. Finally, there was the question that ties the stories together - _"Why is Azazel so damned important (and self-important)?"_  
  
I see a common thread running through the brother pairs in this story: Sam/Dean, Lucifer/Michael, Cain/Abel, and the gods who came before them all.  The basic premise of the story - that Sam and Dean have a greater destiny - is nothing new, but I still felt wonderfully Kripke'd by Michael's remarks that Sam and Dean were part of "an ancient bloodline stretching back to Cain and Abel" ["The Song Remains the Same"].  "Swan Song" also touched on several elements of the mythology of this story and my first story, [**_Santa Fe & Iron_**](http://write-light.livejournal.com/85766.html) (2009), including a battle near the hellmouth in Stull Cemetery in Lawrence, Kansas.    
  
Starting with these ideas, I delved into what Sam and Dean might represent, why (and how) they'd be here on Earth, and where their road might take them after this story ends.  By creating a legendary basis (the Recurrence) for having Sam and Dean around in some form forever, I'm taking a giant leap that I hope I can pull together in the conclusion of the trilogy, **_Winchester Recurrence_**.  But right now, we need to get some characters out of Hell, and that's going to cost.  It's going to cost a lot.  
  
The ultimate connection between this AU and the Show!Verse will become clearer in the final story as well, but I'll stop with the spoilers right there. I can say that, to my mind, this was an AU of the S3/S4 stories.  Story 3 will parallel S5 and S6 in its own way.  
  
This is only my second fic of any real length, with most being about 2500 words and often less.  It ends where it ends, deep in Hell and deep in the middle of the very confusing truth about what Sam and Dean are really here on Earth for.  But have no fear, there is a further sequel in the works, one that I promise to have ready  for next year's BigBang 2011.   
  
I have had more fun writing this than just about anything I've ever written, including the first story in this trilogy, and more sheer joy at being creative than I ever expected.  So here it is, FINALLY. I'd love to hear your reactions to **_Remedy for Cain_**.


	18. Art by seleneh for Remedy for Cain

Please visit her LiveJournal page and compliment her amazing work!

##  [ SPN_J2_BIGBANG ART FOR WRITE_LIGHT'S "REMEDY FOR CAIN" ](http://acme-graphics.livejournal.com/34629.html)

Header:  
  
  
  
Wallpaper:  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/seleneheart/pic/0030yx70)  
1662x1024  
  
Soundtrack Cover:  
  
  
Divider:   
  
  
Some icons:  
  
  



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